


this is why we don't like black widow

by shellhead



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-03
Updated: 2012-04-03
Packaged: 2017-11-02 23:39:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/374653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shellhead/pseuds/shellhead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being coerced by his roommate Dominick Cobb to take a class on the art and history of comic books, Arthur meets Eames, a cocky, British smartass, who after kicking the back of Arthur's chair in class one day to keep him awake has yet to break the habit. Arthur wants nothing to do with him, but upon discovering that Eames is good friends with Ariadne, (a girl he's been crushing on since meeting her last year in his physics class), decides to put up with his antics in order to get closer to her. Complications ensue when Arthur and Eames are paired up for the class project—creating their very own comic book. Herein lies a tale of deceit, misunderstandings, love lost, love found, and really, <i>really</i> bad comic books.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this is why we don't like black widow

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://inception-bang.livejournal.com/892.html?thread=232572) in round one of the [Inception Big Bang](http://inception-bang.livejournal.com/17706.html). Somewhat inspired by the wonderful Merlin/Arthur fic [MERLIN](http://moonythestrals.livejournal.com/59414.html) by [moonythestrals](http://moonythestrals.livejournal.com/).

It starts with Dom.  But then again, it always starts with Dom.

If questioned, Arthur has nothing to say but good things about his roommate Dominick Cobb. They’re best buddies, inseparable; but to any outsider their relationship would look strained, unnatural. They’re always trying to one-up the other, and Cobb, with his imagination and drive, is always spouting out crazy ideas, and Arthur, with his down-to-earth practicalities, is always shooting them down.

Or, at least, _trying_ to.

So really, when Dom comes bursting into their dorm room that Thursday morning before classes begin, Arthur should have seen it coming.

Arthur’s studying his Second-Edition Principles of Economics textbook, when the door slams open with enough force to smack against the wall and swing back closed with a reverberating crash. Arthur jerks around in surprise, just in time to see Cobb opening the door again—a great deal more gently this time around. Cobb stands in the doorway, hands on his hips in what Arthur thinks is his attempt to look heroic, and glares at Arthur.

“You’re going to ask me to do something,” Arthur says. “So let me stop you right there and say: _no._ ”

“Three words for you, Arthur,” Cobb says without pause, and he holds up three fingers for emphasis. “ _Comic._ _Book. Class._ ”

“Oh my god,” Arthur groans, “it’s worse than I thought. Teenaged prostitution, I would be okay with. Hell, _joining the mafia_ would’ve been a better-”

“Arthur. Shut up,” Cobb snaps, impatient. Arthur sighs, but acquiesces with a wave of his hand. “So it’s a new class, ‘The Art and History of Comic Books’,” Cobb continues.  There’s a gleam in his eyes that Arthur recognizes well—too well. Arthur knows right then that he is well and truly fucked. “Professor Saito is teaching it, and you get to _draw comic books_ instead of doing a final.  Anyway, what I’m trying to say, Arthur, is that it’s _the_ class to take on campus. And we? We are taking it.”

“Cobb,” Arthur sighs, looking at his friend in exasperation. “Once, in third grade my teacher gave my drawing of a cat an ‘F’. Dom, we didn’t even _have_ grades in that year. Dom, _I failed art in the third grade._ ”

There’s a heavy pause, then: “Your point being?”

“Argh!” Arthur exclaims, throwing his hands into the air in frustration.  “My point being, how could you _possibly_ think I’d take a goddamned art class, now, in college, when the grades actually matter? I can’t. Do. _Art._ ” __

“But Arthur…” Cobb says solemnly. “ _Comic books._ ” He gives Arthur another imploring look. “ _Comic books._ ”

“Nothing you say or do will compel me to take that class,” Arthur says with finality, and he swivels his chair around so his back faces Cobb. “The answer is ‘no’, and it will always be ‘no’.”

“But-”

“No.”

“There’s a-”

“No.”

“Ariadne’s taking it.”

Arthur freezes, and all at once his heart begins to pound wildly away in his chest. Slowly, inch by inch, he turns his chair back around to face Cobb once more.

“…what?”

“I got you,” Cobb exclaims jubilantly, eyes bright, and he points a finger at Arthur. “I got you _good._ ”

So Arthur may or may not have the biggest crush in the history of _life_ on Ariadne, a girl he’d met last year in his Physics class. It is a highly debatable subject, and one that Arthur does not like to frequently dwell on. And if it’s Ariadne’s face he imagines every time he jerks off in the dorm showers, well. She does have a very pretty face.

“I guess that’s a ‘yes’ then,” Cobb says, grinning, and the look in his eyes is much too knowledgeable. “Which is good and all, seeing as I’ve already signed you up. Well then bye!” Cobb cries out triumphantly over Arthur’s indignant hiss. He beats a hasty retreat, the textbook Arthur had thrown in rage hot on his heels.

 

 

It’s only after his morning classes that Arthur has time to check his class schedule online, and sure enough, the empty time-slot he _used_ to have Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings is gone, replaced with the damnable Art and History of Comic Books. ****

Of course, Cobb times springing the news on Arthur perfectly; schedules became permanent at 11 that morning, right when Arthur was still stuck in his class. There’s no possible way out of it.

“I am going to kill him,” Arthur says calmly.

The freshman sitting next to him on the bench glances up, takes one good look at the expression on Arthur’s face, and hurriedly walks away.

“Well not you, obviously!” Arthur calls out after him. The freshman yelps, and walks faster.  “Idiot,” Arthur huffs, and snaps his laptop shut determinedly. Getting up from the bench, he stuffs the computer into his shoulder bag and makes off for the Student Lounge. It’s 1:30 in the afternoon. Cobb will be there.

And sure enough, Arthur sees Cobb at their regular table towards the back of the building, eating lunch from his tray in front of him.  Arthur determinedly strides over and slams his bag down hard on the table, making Cobb jump in surprise.  “I should’ve never told you my student ID number,” he says bitterly, sliding into the chair next to Dom.  “Also, I am going to kill you.”

“The fact that you think I’d need your number is cute,” Cobb shoots back with a cheeky smile, taking a bite out of his apple. He chews thoughtfully, and then adds, with a mouth still full of fruit, “well, it certainly didn’t hurt.”

“Ugh. _Ugh_ ,” Arthur groans, and he grabs a fork from Cobb’s tray before stabbing his friend’s pasta with murderous fury.

Cobb chomps out another bite of the apple. “Buck up, kid,” he says, patting Arthur on the back.

“What are you, _seventy?_ ”

“I do have a mind wise beyond my years,” Dom says solemnly.

Arthur huffs around a mouthful of penne. “How were you not bullied in high school?”

“Quick wit and the ability to run fast, of course.”

“Oh, _oh_ , of _course_.” 

Cobb frowns.  “Someday, when you’re older—more _mature—_ you’ll get tired of mocking me.”

“Never,” Arthur says immediately, his grin feral.

Cobb suddenly stands up, animatedly pointing his half-eaten apple at Arthur. “SO REMEMBER, ARTHUR,” Cobb yells abruptly, seemingly tired of the direction their conversation is heading, “COMIC BOOK CLASS TOMORROW AT TEN.” He takes a vigorous bite from the apple and strides pompously away.

Arthur’s grin falters with this reminder. “Bastard,” he mutters under his breath, and furiously stabs out another bite of Cobb’s forgotten pasta.

 

 

In Arthur’s mind, Ariadne is the perfect girl.

She’s pretty, funny, and knowledgeable; she can talk for hours highlighting the critical flaws in the fiscal policies of the United States, and just as easily wax poetic about her favorite Lady Gaga outfits of all time (Arthur knows she has seven). Of course, a lot of this Arthur knows from word of mouth, or from innocently overhearing her conversations during class. That he’d always sit near enough to eavesdrop is understandable; it’s a crush for god’s sake, what’s he’s supposed to do?

At first, Arthur had been a bit taken aback by this apparent crush, as it had been quite some time since he’d last been attracted to a girl. It had been Mary back in his first year of middle school, who’d picked him to be her racquetball partner in zero period PE. She’d been his first kiss too, but after being followed by a string of guys—some mere infatuation, some actual relationships—Arthur had almost started to think of himself as being completely and utterly gay. Then Ariadne had come out of nowhere, and Arthur surrendered to his apparent fluid sexuality.

They’d met after he’d sat next to Ariadne on their first day of class. Arthur likes to think it hadn’t been mere coincidence, that her very presence had drawn him in, (in actuality, he’d been the third person into the auditorium, and sitting next to or even _near_ the heavy-browed goth in the corner of the room hadn’t really appealed to him.) So next to Ariadne was. She’d been sitting there sketching, yellow scarf tied skillfully around her neck, red sweater-vest fitting tightly to all her curves. The instant Arthur had sat down he knew it’d been the right choice, because folded neatly in half and resting precariously on top of her books had been the Business section of that morning’s newspaper. Arthur, being Arthur, just _had_ to call her out on this fact, and they’d fallen right into a discussion. That had been the first and only time they’d talked, but it was enough.

They’d continued to say casual ‘hello’s,’ waved if they happened to pass by each other outside of class, but Arthur never had the nerve to strike up another conversation. It was disheartening to realize that it was only _afte_ r Arthur discovered how _right_ Ariadne seemed for him, that his body and his brain froze up, and the courage he’d found to talk to her when she’d just been yet another nameless face in the crowd had disappeared.

Ariadne being in this new class gives him the opportunity he’d so foolishly thrown aside. It’s another year, another semester, and now Arthur has another nine months to find the courage he’d been lacking the year before, to take the leap and not just say ‘hi’ or ‘hello’ but to take it a step further, to _talk_ to her, and to listen to her voice without feeling guilty about it, and to look at her freely without feeling like a creep.

Arthur doesn’t want to take the class, but he knows he has to; in all actuality, it’s his only hope.

 

* * *

 

On Friday morning, Arthur is rudely awoken by a pillow.

It’s a very fine pillow, soft and fluffy, with just enough down to be the perfect firmness. It’s the kind of pillow one would want to be hit with, if one had no other choice than _to_ be hit with a pillow.

But Arthur is pretty goddamn sure he has a choice in this matter. And Arthur does _not_ want to be pillowed awake, no matter how fine a specimen of a pillow it is.

“I will fucking make you _bleed_ ,motherfucker,” Arthur snarls, grabbing his sheets and pulling them over his head, in a poor attempt at blocking the blows.

“Wake up, Arthur!” Dom exclaims, unperturbed, as he thumps Arthur over the head again.

Arthur wonders when Dom stopped taking his threats seriously.

Arthur wonders if Dom _ever_ took them seriously at all.

With a great sigh, he heaves the sheets off his body and sits up in bed. “Look, look, I’m up.”

“Good,” Cobb says, and takes another swing at Arthur’s head. Arthur sees it coming, but his reflexes, still muddled from sleep, are not quick enough to avoid the blow.

 _Thwump,_ goes the pillow. “ _Mmph_ ,” goes Arthur.

And Dom, the son-of-a-bitch, just stands there laughing.

“Someday this is all going to come back to bite you in the motherfucking _face,_ ” Arthur warns, as he rubs his sleep-crusted eyes.

“That’s what you always say, Arthur,” he replies, still chuckling. “Anyway, you now have,” he checks his watch, “twenty-seven minutes to get ready for class.”

“…what? Fuck!” Arthur exclaims, as he looks over at his bedside alarm clock. 9:33 twinkles mockingly back at him.

Dom has the gall to snicker.

“Why didn’t you wake me sooner?” Arthur screeches, and he‘s springing out of bed and throwing on clothes before Dom can even blink.

“I had Professor Miles at eight, remember?” Dom says, and much to Arthur’s chagrin doesn’t sound very sympathetic. “Look, I reminded you last night to set your alarm,” he points out.

Arthur spares an apologetic glance over at Dom. “I know, I know, I messed up,” he says, hopping around on one foot as he yanks on a sock, “thanks for waking me up at all then. Though you could’ve done it, I don’t know, _a little more gently?_ ”

Cobb grins. “Hey, well, the end justifies the means.”

“I’m talking Hiroshima with you later,” Arthur huffs in retort. “In the meantime; shoes?”

“Closet, I believe. Anyhoo-”

“Seriously, _how_ were you not bullied?”

“-I’m off to class. Don’t want to be late on the first day,” he continues, amused.

“Oh, fuck you to hell.”

“I do hope you’re not late, Arthur,” Cobb singsongs, and then he’s gone, and Arthur is left scrambling around the room in a hunt for his shoes alone.

“Fucking idiot, this is _all his fault_ ,” Arthur hisses to himself, as he finally slips on his newly-found shoes (underneath his _bed_ , Cobb the lying bastard). With that, he whirls out of the room and makes a quick stop into the bathroom, to piss and to splash water on his face in an attempt to feel _somewhat_ clean.

With fifteen minutes to spare, Arthur hurries over to the Student Center to grab a banana, and finally, three minutes before ten, Arthur finds himself in the Cobol building, opening the door to Auditorium B.

The auditorium is packed with students, two hundred at least, and a cursory glance around the place shows the professor to be missing. Arthur wanders up the rows, and manages to find a seat next to a small-looking Asian girl, somewhere near the back of the room, and finally allows himself to breathe.

His reprieve is short; just a few chairs in front of him, a bit to the left, someone is turned around and waving in Arthur’s general direction.

It’s Cobb. Of _course._

“What?” Arthur hisses, and Cobb stops waving, instead points somewhere towards the front of the room.  Arthur follows his finger and that’s when he sees Ariadne.

She’s surrounded by a gaggle of her friends, all architecture students by the look of it. She’s currently laughing at something one of them just said, her whole face aglow with amusement. The world seems to melt away for Arthur, until she’s the center of his universe, and he is totally and completely enthralled.

“If you do not want to be here, leave,” Professor Saito suddenly barks out in heavily accented English.

A nervous silence sweeps over the auditorium.

“If any of you— _any of you_ ,” he reiterates, scanning the classroom, “don’t want to be here, you will be spending the last few days of your semester filed with regret, waiting to fail alone.”

There’s a murmur of dissent among the students at these words, and Arthur coughs guiltily, before settling down a little lower in his seat.  “Dramatic, much?” someone with a distinctly English accent mutters behind him, and a few of the students sitting around Arthur titter with nervous amusement.

“No one wishes to leave?” Professor Saito asks. The professor scans the crowd again, and Arthur shields his eyes nervously with a hand, as if Saito would be able to spot him amongst the hundreds of other students in the auditorium.  He’d contemplated leaving _before_ , but no matter how much he doesn’t want to be there, nothing could get him to leave _now,_ when all eyes (most especially Ariadne’s) would be upon him. 

“Very well,” Arthur hears the professor finally say, and he lets out a sigh of relief. Professor Saito then launches into a passionate speech outlining the various influences of comic books on society without even skipping a beat.

After a few minutes of listening to the professor drone on, Arthur’s cell suddenly buzzes in his pocket with a text message, and he pulls it out to read.

 

> From : Dominick  
>  Received : Fri, Sept 10 10:06 am  
>   
>  haha :D

 

Arthur sighs, rolls his eyes and vows revenge later.

 

* * *

 

Arthur supposes that going to sleep at six am the night before instead of his usual twelve might have been a mistake.

See, the thing is; it’s really warm inside Auditorium B, and Saito’s droning voice is admittedly very soothing to listen to, and when he’s keeping awake with just a weak cup of coffee and sheer determination alone, it’s not surprising that he’d be nodding off in class.

In Arthur’s defense, staying up until six _had_ been unavoidable. Because he has a six-page paper due in Economics in a Digital Age just an hour after this class, and he really had had _no_ time whatsoever to work on it before last night, because of… issues.

So really. Unavoidable.

Clearly.

And that… that’s why he’s nodding… off in class. That’s…

_Thwump._

Arthur jerks awake with a huff, disoriented. Was that…? Did someone just…? Did someone just kick his chair?

_Thwump._

And there it is again; his whole chair shudders as the guy behind him _kicks his fucking chair_.

Arthur whirls around. “What the _fuck_ was that for?” he hisses, glaring.

“You were falling asleep, mate,” the guy replies, in an _English accent_ of all things, and he shrugs. 

Arthur takes the guy in; he’s wearing a light brown polo shirt, popped collar, opened to reveal tattooed skin, and one of those tacky shark-tooth necklaces dangles in between his collarbones. Great, just what Arthur needs; a bored, stunningly attractive frat boy looking for some poor soul to bother.

“Yeah, well… thanks,” Arthur begrudgingly says. “But you can stop it now.”

The guy smiles to reveal quite a set of crooked teeth.  “Okay, whatever you say then,” he says unconvincingly, and Arthur nods briskly before turning away.  A few moments pass, and he sends a silent prayer to every deity he can think of, hoping that the guy will let things lie.

_Thwump._

Arthur doesn’t even flinch. “Oh my god.”

The guy just sniggers, and aims a few taps in quick succession at the back of Arthur’s chair.

“Stop it,” Arthur snarls under his breath. “Or I’ll break your fucking neck.”

“Sorry, darling, but this is entirely too much fun,” the guys whispers, and Arthur spares another glance behind him. The guy is leaning back in his chair, arms crossed behind his head, expression smug. ‘Hi,’ he mouths, once he sees Arthur looking at him.  Arthur groans and whirls around, stubbornly facing forward even when the kicking begins anew, a steady unceasing rhythm.

And then the kicking unexpectedly stops. Arthur waits with bated breath.

“I’m Eames,” the guy suddenly whispers into his ear. Arthur yelps, and a few students give him inquisitive glances.  Arthur tries his best to make himself look disinteresting, and once they look away, Arthur turns around.

“‘I’m Fucking Dead,’ you mean,” Arthur snaps, trying to quell the blush currently struggling to his cheeks from his embarrassing outburst.

The guy—no, _Eames_ —smiles. “You wanna tell me your name then?”

“Hell no.”

“If you don’t tell me your name, I’m gonna have to make one up for you.”

“Get that right out of Star Trek, did you?”

“What’s Star Trek?” Eames asks.

“What’s Star Trek? _What’s Star Trek?_ ” Arthur hisses in disbelief, but when he turns around he sees Eames grinning mischievously.  “Oh, ha ha, absolutely hilarious,” he deadpans, turning back around.

“So you’re not going to tell me your name?”

“Obviously.”

Then Arthur can feel a heavy presence at his back, and out of the corner of his eye can see Eames leaning forward, craning his neck to see over his shoulder. “Oh, so it’s _Arthur_ ,” he says triumphantly.  “See, it says there, on your notebook,” Eames explains, pointing.  Arthur glances at where his finger is directing, and sure enough ‘Arthur’ is spelled out in neat block letters in the top corner of one of his notebooks. _Fuck._ Arthur quickly moves a hand to cover his name, before looking behind him and glaring.

“Arthur. Arthuuuur,” Eames says, rolling the name about in his mouth. “Like the _king._ ”

“Are you a bit touched in the head?” Arthur asks.

Eames just grins. Suddenly, his face goes serious and he straightens up, and Arthur looks at him quizzically.

“Gentlemen!” a voice calls out.  “Am I interrupting something?”

Arthur freezes, and then quickly whirls back around. Sure enough, the professor is gazing steadily at them both, eyebrows raised in warning.

“Sorry, Professor Saito,” Arthur mutters, trying to ignore what seems like thousands of eyes all _looking_ at him.

“Thank you,” Saito says, and with one last hard glance at the two of them, turns back to his lecture.

“Oh _shit,_ in trouble on the first day of class,” Eames whispers into Arthur’s ear a beat later, voice gleeful, as if he’s trying to hold back laughter.

“Shut the _fuck_ up,” Arthur snarls, and finally, _finally,_ Eames leaves him the _fuck_ alone.

 

 

“Who was that talking to you?” Cobb asks after class. Arthur had shot out of his seat just as the professor dismissed them, in an attempt to avoid any more unwanted interaction with Eames, and as result almost missed seeing Cobb walk out of the classroom.

“Some annoying frat boy,” Arthur replies. “He kicked my chair to keep me awake, but then just kept _doing_ it.”

Dom laughs, pats Arthur sympathetically. “Just get there early on Monday, so you don’t have to sit next to the guy again.”

“Yeah,” Arthur says, scanning the crowd milling about in front of the Cobol Building for a glimpse of Ariadne, (he’d lost her in the press of students, god dammit) “I think I will.”

Dom smiles and claps him on the back, before trotting down the steps in the direction of their dorm. Giving up hope on finding Ariadne, Arthur runs to catch up. They walk slowly, meandering through campus, until their dorm finally comes into view.

Arthur sees Mal first.

She’s standing just under the small copse of trees right outside their dorm, clutching a small stack of books to her chest, and rhythmically scanning the few students milling about in front of the building with steady eyes. She has this peculiar expression on her face, and Arthur knows her well enough to know what’s going to happen next.

Arthur stops walking abruptly, scowling. “What’s she doing here?” Arthur asks, motioning his chin in Mal’s direction. Dom glances over at her sharply, and his shoulders tense immediately upon seeing her. “Mal,” he whispers, and almost as if she heard him, Mal’s gaze snaps over to them immediately.

“I’ll take care of this,” Dom replies, surprisingly calm, but as he strides over to where she’s waiting, the tense set of his shoulders betray his anxiety.

Arthur stays put, watching them closely. At first they look calm, collected, but then Mal reaches out to cup Dom’s cheek and Dom flinches as if her touch is scorching, and the damn breaks. Soon they’re both hissing at each other, spitting mad and equally disgusted.

Mal finally stalks off, stopping her feet as best she can in her heels. Dom watches her go with a scowl; Arthur approaches him cautiously. “Let’s go,” he says, but Dom hesitates, as if he’s going to run after her, but thankfully he turns to follow him inside.

“So what’d she want?” Arthur asks, as they walk up the dorm’s stairs to their room.

At first, Arthur thinks Cobb isn’t going to answer, but he takes a shaky breath and replies.

“Nothing really. Wanted a chance to talk, is all.”

“You two broke up five months ago and she still wants ‘a chance to talk’?” Arthur scoffs, doubtful. “No, there’s something else going on. I mean, the way you two were snapping at each other.” Arthur stops climbing mid-step, struck with a sudden thought. “She’s not… she’s not still threatening to kill herself, is she?”

“Fuck no, Arthur,” Dom snaps, and he gives Arthur a shove right between his shoulder blades. Arthur stumbles up a few steps, but remains standing. He glares at Dom.

“Remember how I can always tell when you’re lying?” Arthur replies, crossing his arms angrily. “Right now is a prime example.”

“Look, I can handle this, alright?” Dom exclaims.

“Right,” Arthur says, totally unconvinced. “Because that’s exactly what you fucking said when you two were still together. Tell me, how did that work out? Is she still in therapy?”

“Look, she didn’t talk about… that,” Dom mutters.

“Oh really?” Arthur groans, rolling his eyes. “What did she say to you then?”

Dom glares daggers. “Would you stop being so nosy?"

“Would you stop being such an idiot?”

“Never, you meddler.”

“Fucker.”

“Nuisance.”

“Dickface.

“Interloper,” Dom snaps, and he shoves Arthur again, this time in the chest.

“Seriously, where do you get this stuff?” Arthur asks, shoving him back.

Of course Dom nearly falls down the stairs after that, and then Arthur prevents him from climbing back up the stairs by shoving his hand in Dom’s face, and when Dom finally manages to ascend the last few steps he pushes back at _Arthur’s_ face with _his_ sweaty palm. So they’re standing on the landing of their floor grappling with each other’s faces and Dom is laughing so hard he can’t even breathe and Arthur is grinning like a maniac, which is kind of gross because he can feel Dom’s fleshy palm on his gums, but then kind of funny too and it’s not like he can just _stop smiling_ when they’re fighting like this.

“You look soooo much better with my hand covering your face,” Dom jibes, voice muffled by Arthur’s palm, and that is _definitely_ gross because now Dom’s wet lips are moving and Arthur can feel the words being _spoken_ _into his hand._ Arthur loves Dom and all, but really; boundaries. Arthur draws his palm away with a sound of disgust.

“Not even my _hand_ can make your face look better,” Arthur jibes back, wiping his palms vigorously on his jeans.

“Arthur, I don’t have cooties _,_ ” Dom says, staring pointedly at Arthur’s hand as he wipes it enough more thoroughly on his shirt.

“Seriously, who still even _says_ that?”

Dom simply snorts, and moves on down the hall towards their room.

Arthur sighs, resisting the urge to slap his forehead in exasperation, and follows.

It’s only hours later, as Arthur lies in bed ready for sleep, that he realizes he’s completely forgotten to quiz Dom further on what had gone down between him and Mal that afternoon.

But Arthur’s sleep-addled mind hazily contemplates this over and over again, until it finally decides it’s not worth the eventual fight. He forgets about it and falls asleep.

 

* * *

 

“So this is Eames,” Dom announces, as Arthur walks up to him just before class come Monday, and he gestures at the guy sitting behind him, to the left.  “He’s from _England._ ”

“Hi Arthur,” Eames says.

“Oh my fucking god,” Arthur says. “ _You!_ ”

“No way. No _way_ ,” Dom exclaims, surprised. “It’s the guy? This is the guy? ‘Annoying Frat Boy’ from Friday?”

“I’m ‘Annoying Frat Boy’?” Eames asks. “You mean Arthur _gave me a nickname?_ ”

“Oh god, please, someone get me _out_ of here,”Arthur pleads, dejectedly plopping into the seat next to Dom.

“Poor Arthur,” Dom says.

“Fuck me,” Arthur says.

“Arthur, you gave me a nickname!” Eames says.

Arthur groans.

 

* * *

 

As Arthur’s luck would have it, Dom and Eames are fast friends.

Sometimes he’s lucky, and gets to class late enough that the only empty seats are nowhere near where Eames is sitting.

Sometimes he’s not so lucky, and gets to the lecture hall on time.  On those days, no matter where he sits Eames finds him, and promptly sits in the chair right behind him, prime kicking-backs-of-chairs real estate. Fortunately, Dom is usually there with him, so provides a wonderful distraction that gives him _some_ measure of relief from Eames’ attention.

And sometimes life just shits on his face, because there are those days that Eames and Arthur end up just the two of them together (and it’s always Eames sitting _behind_ him, Arthur just doesn’t _understand_ it), and without the buffer of Dom between them, they almost always end up squabbling.  And the _kicking._ The non-stop _kicking._ It just drives Arthur up the motherfucking _wall._

“Why do you hate Eames so much, Arthur?” Dom asks him, when they’re both heading over to the Student Lounge for lunch.

“I don’t _hate_ him.  He’s just so, well I guess, _bothersome._ ”

“Bothersome,” Dom repeats, eyebrows raised.

Arthur nods, pleased with his description. “Yeah. _Bothersome._ ”

Cobb just laughs and leaves it at that.

And then it all changes.

Because there’s one Wednesday that Arthur gets to class early for once, and the auditorium is just beginning to fill up with students, so Arthur can quickly spot Eames in his usual seat, talking to a girl whose back is facing Arthur. As he walks up the steps of the lecture hall, Eames notices Arthur and waves.

“Hey Arthur,” Eames calls out. “Come meet my best friend.”  And then the girl Eames is talking to turns around and Arthur’s heart nearly shudders to a halt.

“Hi, Arthur,” she says brightly.

“Hi, Ariadne,” he replies.

And suddenly, Arthur can’t think of any other person he’d rather have _bother_ him.

So he walks up to the pair with a pounding heart, takes the seat in front of Eames and gives in; if all it takes is a little tolerance to get him closer to Ariadne, well… there’s really no debate, is there.

 

* * *

 

“How does a person like you even _know_ Ariadne?”

Eames raises his eyebrows in surprise, and the pencil he’d been gnawing on falls from his lips, forgotten. “I could ask you the same question, darling.”

It’s a Friday morning and the whole class is waiting for Professor Saito, (Dom is sitting beside Arthur, even more completely oblivious to the world with his noise-canceling headphones on) and Arthur can’t help but use this time to his advantage. Learning of Eames’ and Ariadne’s friendship a few days ago had completely taken him aback; it’s such an unlikely pairing that he can’t help but be _curious._

And well, if he has to admit it, _jealous_.

“Well I don’t really… I don’t really know her,” Arthur stutters, staring furiously at the blackboard. “I-I mean, we’ve _talked._ But just. Just in class last year. We had Physics together.”

“Oh, I see,” Eames replies, tapping his pencil rhythmically on his desktop. “Quite hard to bond over vectors, I understand.”

“It’s not- _Eames_ ,” he groans, and Eames has the gall to chuckle. “Now stop fucking ignoring my question,” Arthur continues, and he whirls around, slamming his hand down on top of Eames’ to get the damned pencil-tapping to _stop_. “Answer it already, I fucking asked you first.”

“No need to get so testy,” Eames replies with a haughty sniff, shaking Arthur’s hand off. “There’s not much to tell really,” he continues primly. “She was in the dorm next to mine last year, and we bonded over loud music and keeping the floor up until the ghastly hours of the morning. Those little tossers seemed to think they could make it through college going to bed before midnight.” He shakes his head in disbelief, and Arthur decides never to share with Eames that he attempts to do just that. “Anyway, Ari moved into a house with a bunch of her mates this year, but she’s apparently decided that we’re going to be attached at the hip until the end of time.” He smiles fondly. “She’s an absolute love, isn’t she.”

“I know,” Arthur breathes out quietly, gazing longingly at Ariadne’s back, She’s in the front, surrounded by all her architect friends yet again, but most of her attention is directed to her phone, which seems to buzz quite consistently. Arthur now knows it’s Eames she’s texting, that lucky son-of-a-bitch; he wishes he knew Eames better, and had the balls to steal away Eames’ phone and text her himself.

“Sorry, what was that?” Eames asks, leaning forward, eyebrows raised in inquisitiveness.

“What?” Arthur snaps, literally feeling the blood flooding to his cheeks. “ _Nothing_.”

Eames looks like he’s about to say more, but Saito calmly strides into the room with a flourish of his hands, loudly announcing, “Let us begin, class!”

As the professor regally peels off his coat and throws it on the desk before him, Arthur gives Eames a shrug and fixes his attention back towards the front of the room.

 

* * *

 

Using Eames proves to be a lot harder than Arthur originally thinks.

It takes planning, preemptive thought, figuring out what to say before he says it. Because he can’t go ahead and say ‘hi I’m only taking up on all of these offers to hang out with you because I have a huge-ass crush on your best friend.’  So instead he suggests it subtly; sneaks it into conversations he has with Eames in class; even has the courage to take the initiative and ask the two of them before Eames has to suggest it.

It all seems to work just fine.

And it wasn’t like he was _really_ using Eames. Being friends with a person only because they _happen_ to be best friends with a year-long crushdoesn’t exemplify ‘using,’ right?

Okay, so maybe it does. But thankfully, Eames isn’t bright enough to catch on.

Dom does, though.  Of _course_ he does.

He figures it out after class some Friday, when the three of them (sans Ariadne, dammit) head over to the local burger joint for their usual lunch.  They’re just getting in line when Eames takes over the conversation.

“You know,” Eames says, offhandedly to Arthur, “that local independent theater on campus just started screening old pictures, every Wednesday night.  I’d like to go, and thought you’d might like to join me.”

“What are they showing this week?” Arthur asks, and almost immediately a surge of excitement sends his mind whirling; will Ariadne already be coming? Or will Arthur have to initiate something?

“Dr. Strangelove,” Eames replies, watching Arthur from the corner of his eye.

“Oh?” Arthur says, a little breathless.

“You know, that old black comedy set during the Cold War?”

“I know what you’re talking about, Eames,” Arthur says, rolling his eyes. “I’m not Cobb. I _know_ Dr. Strangelove.”

“What?” says Cobb, at mention of his name. He grins brightly. “Is that a soda?”

All Arthur has to do is cross his arms and smirk.

“….alright, I see your point. Don’t have to act so smug about it,” Eames says, laughing.  “So. Dr. Strangelove. Wednesday night. What do you say?”

“I say it sounds awesome. Mmm, but hey,” Arthur adds, carefully nonchalant, and his heart pounds as he thinks of what’s coming next, “you should- you should get Ari to come along; sounds like something she’d like, don’t you think?”

“I suppose,” Eames replies.

“Yeah, I’ll bring this idiot along too,” Arthur replies, jabbing a thumb in Dom’s direction. “It’ll be fun.”

“Brilliant,” Eames says, smiling thinly. “Sounds like a plan then.”

As the overweight man ahead of them in line moves off, Eames steps up to order.

“Oh my god,” Dom suddenly hisses into Arthur’s ear, and Arthur has to resist the urge to swat at him. “I just totally figured something out!”

“I’m so proud,” Arthur replies.  “Oh tell me, please.”

“Dude.” He pauses for dramatic effect.

“Seriously? You’re going to do this to me? Pause for dramatic fucking effect?”

“Oh shut up,” Dom says, rolling his eyes. “But dude, really, you are totally using Eames to get to Ariadne.”

The guilt spears him like a lightning bolt.  Arthur’s annoyance gives way to sheer panic. He gives Dom a sharp look in warning and says, “I can neither confirm nor deny that.”

“Which essentially means ‘fuck yes,’” Dom says triumphantly. “Oh my god. Oh my god, _Arthur._ So scandalous! I didn’t think you had it in you.”

Another stab of guilt; Arthur’s glare is icy. “Dom, if you value your life at all, you’ll shut up about it and order some fucking food.”

“Oh alright, alright,” Dom says. “Just know I’m on to you, buster,” and he wags a scolding finger in Arthur’s face. When he turns away, Arthur sighs.

When it comes to knowing shit, like the difference between soda and a fucking _movie,_ Arthur can never rely on his friend Dom. But in matters like _this;_ knowing peoples’ minds like the back of his hand, figuring out their hidden agendas, their dirty secrets, he’s like a fucking American James Bond.

 _Fuck_ , Arthur thinks.

He awkwardly avoids Eames’ gaze for nearly the rest of lunch.

 

* * *

 

“Look,” says Ariadne firmly.  “All I’m saying is that Iron Man’s origin story is a more legitimate and believable turn of events. The reasons Wayne chooses to don a suit are petty compared to Tony Stark’s.”

“But darling, how can you condone the blatant racism that so evidently plays a part in Iron Man’s genesis?” Eames fires back, pointing a fork with chicken still speared on it at her vehemently.

“It’s all about perspective,” she replies easily.  “You have to take into account the social norms of the 60’s.  You can’t condemn aspects of important literature just because the common beliefs of society in the time it was written are vastly different than today’s ethical code.”

“…okay, that doesn’t even make _sense,_ Ari.”

“Your _face_ doesn’t even make sense, _Eames_.”

“Okay, Eames?” Arthur interrupts, weary, but with a warm humor in his voice. “You do know she’s just going to take Iron Man’s side in any argument you start with her? She’s completely biased when it comes to that Robert Downey, Jr. guy”

“But those are _movies,_ Ari,” Eames gasps, dramatically slapping a hand over his heart. “How can you be biased of a comic book character just because of _the_ _actor that plays him?”_

“I never said my bias is based in reason, Eames,” Ariadne chides, grinning around her straw.

Eames just shakes his head, and throws a fry at her.

“How did we _get_ here, Dom?” Arthur whispers to his friend, as Eames and Ariadne launch into another heated but friendly argument over the lack of strong female superheroes in comic books, due to the prevalent male dominance of the comic book industry.

“Well,” Cobb says sagely, all likeness lost when he shoves an entire saltine cracker into his mouth before replying, “I’m pretty sure we walked in through the door over there, and-”

“No, fuckwad,” Arthur hisses,” I mean how did we get _here_ , to _this_ point, where we eat lunch every other day of the week with _Ariadne?_ ”

“And how are you actually talking to her?”Dom adds, amused.

“Yes, shit, that’s exactly what I mean.”

“Well, there’s the using Eames bit. Just a bit immoral if you ask me,” Cobb says, nonchalant. He even admires his fingernails.

“Oh shut up,” Arthur replies, ignoring the stab of guilt he always feels when Cobb brings the subject up.

“But hey, all is fair in love and war. Because you _do_ love her, am I right?” Dom waggles his eyebrows and looks at Arthur expectantly.

Arthur blushes, looks down at the table. “What? No. Fuck you, I don’t love her.”

“Don’t love who?”

Arthur whips his head up. Eames and Ariadne are both staring curiously at him. “Don’t love who?” Ariadne repeats, when Arthur sits there working his mouth but saying nothing.

“Black Widow,” Cobb says, doing his best to hold back his laughter.  “Black Widow, of course.”

“Yes, I totally agree,” Eames says triumphantly.  “Why do you all love the bloody _regular_ people so much? Everyone knows the best superheroes are the ones with the actual _superpowers_.”

And as Ariadne predictably launches off on a tangent of why superheroes with no powers are preferable, Arthur gives Dom a brief nod of gratitude. Dom only smiles and shoves another saltine cracker into his mouth.

Arthur goes back to listening to Ariadne’s voice wage its complicated war against Eames’ like the obsessed, love-sick teenager that he is, because no matter how much he tries to deny it, to himself _and_ to Cobb, what Cobb had said was right, was so damn right.

He is so in love.

 

* * *

 

Arthur is an economics major.  His hours studying are spent crouched over graphs and charts, studies and reports, neatly organized onto small 8.5” x 11” pieces of paper or into compact, glossy textbooks. It’s orderly. It’s controlled. It’s just how Arthur likes it.

Dom, however, is an architecture major.  And that means rolls of plans and blue-prints, large books and drawing instruments, all strewn haphazardly around their dorm room, spread out where Arthur sleeps and studies and steps and Arthur? Arthur can’t fucking take it anymore.

“I can’t fucking take it anymore,” Arthur exclaims, when for the fifth time that night Cobb throws another blue-print over his desk, covering his work. “I’m going to the fucking library.”

“Dude, I just needed your desk for like, a second,” Dom explains.

“Yeah, and then two seconds from now you’re going to fucking need it again,” Arthur snaps. “Look, I love you, man, but this is just too much. See you in a couple hours or something.” He shoves his books into his backpack, ignoring Dom rolling his eyes at him, and with that, stalks out of the room.

Arthur’s never been one to study in the library, as it always has a tendency to be crowded and filled with the various distracting noises of students slacking off, but it’s thankfully quiet that evening. There’s one study room still free, so Arthur slips into the room and settles down, looking forward to a few hours of solid study time.

And quite predictably, Arthur hears a hesitant knock on the door just a few minutes later. Arthur groans, resists the urge to hit his head against the tabletop, and gets up from his books to open the door.

A short Middle-Eastern guy, hair curly and glasses rectangular, stands in front of him. “Hi,” he says joyfully. “The other rooms are full; mind if we share?”

Arthur contemplates turning the guy away, but he’s standing there in the doorway looking so pitifully cheery, as if he can’t even _contemplate_ Arthur not letting him in.

“Oh alright,” Arthur sighs in defeat.

“Brilliant,” the guy says, and he steps into the room. Arthur turns back around to sit down, and the other moves to follow, sitting across from him.

“I’m Yusuf,” the guy says suddenly.  He then extends a hand across the table, looking at Arthur expectantly.

“Arthur,” he replies, shaking the guy’s hand.

And they both settle down to work.

 

* * *

 

After that first successful night, Arthur takes to studying in the library.  In the beginning he studies alone, but then Yusuf appears again on a Sunday and it becomes an unspoken agreement between the two of them to share a study room.

Yusuf is a chemistry major—he understands the importance of work, and they can sometimes go hours without talking, but Arthur soon finds he can easily fall into conversation with Yusuf.  The guy is brilliant, but he isn’t without a sense of humor, and he sometimes has Arthur clutching his side, roaring with laughter.

But as Arthur soon discovers, Yusuf has one drawback: he’s the biggest gossip Arthur has ever met, and he seems to constantly rant about his roommate. He can go on and on for _hours_ about the one time his roommate _dared_ to leave dirty underwear on the floor-

“It was disgusting, Arthur,” Yusuf exclaims, slapping his hand down on the table for emphasis.

“I believe you, really I do,” Arthur sighs, looking at Yusuf with a bored expression.

“I mean, what kind of animal just leaves their dirty underwear _lying_ on the floor?”

“Horrifying.”

-or how often he drips _paint_ all over Yusuf’s desk-

“It gets everywhere, and then if I don’t wipe it up fast enough it sticks to my desk and then I have to scrape it off! It can take hours!”

“Oh wow,” Arthur deadpans.

“I _know_ , right?!”

-or how he sometimes stays up all hours of the night playing _minesweeper-_

“It’s just _click-click-click-click-click_ , all night long. How’s a guy supposed to get any sleep with that infernal racket?”

“I don’t even know.”

But above all, Yusuf’s favorite topic is his roommate’s infatuation with his current _crush-_

“He keeps going on and on about him,” Yusuf complains. “If I didn’t love the guy so much, I’d literally shove a sock down his throat.”

“Uh-huh,” Arthur murmurs.

“You know what’s weird though? Dude, the roommate is crushing on a guy named _Arthur._ ”

“Oh, really,” Arthur deadpans, scanning his textbook while half-listening to Yusuf’s rant. “That’s nice.”

Yusuf nods vigorously. “Yeah.  You don’t think it’s _you_ the roommate is crushing over?”

Arthur lets out a distracted laugh. “I doubt it. It’s a big school, and I’m not very likeable.”

“That’s not true; _I_ like you.”

“…but you’re a chem major.”

“Hey!” Yusuf cries out, appalled.  “What’s that supposed to mean?!”

Arthur just smirks and scribbles down a couple notes from the text.

“…okay, I can see now why no one likes you,” Yusuf relents, shaking his head in exasperation.

“Shut up and study.”

But for all Yusuf’s drawbacks, Arthur can’t help but like him. But for all Yusuf’s drawbacks, Arthur can’t help but realize he’s found a friend.

 

* * *

 

It’s about a month into the semester that Professor Saito finally announces ‘The Project.’

There’d been a general hubbub of excitement in the few days leading up to his announcement, because this was the reason anybody ever took the class; the opportunity to create your own comic book for credit was just something no college student would want to pass up.

Well, except for Arthur, that is.

Arthur just sits quietly in his seat during all this mayhem, as the rest of the students chat excitedly about the project. Eames even stops kicking the back of his chair for once, too distracted by the gossip to distract Arthur too. 

The only thing that really interests Arthur is the _partner_ aspect of the whole ordeal; if he could somehow figure out a way to get himself partnered with _Ariadne_ without looking like an absolute _creep_ , the whole project wouldn’t seem that terrible after all.

It happens the third Monday in October.

Arthur and Dom get to class early, and to Arthur’s surprise neither Ariadne nor Eames are in their usual seats. He plops down next to Dom, and does his best to look for any sight of Ariadne without looking like he’s looking.  Finally, someone walks up, taking the seat behind him. _Eames._ Arthur doesn’t even spare him a glance; just holds up his hand and flips Eames the bird.

“Um, I’m sorry?” someone says, in what is decidedly not an English accent.

“What?” Arthur says, and he whirls around. A timid-looking guy with black hair sits behind him, looking at him with a panicked expression. “You’re not Eames,” Arthur says.

“No,” the guy replies, looking about ready to wet his pants in terror and that’s when a sudden burst of uncontrollable giggling assails Arthur’s ears. He looks around wildly; and there sits Eames, across an aisle and few seats back, laughing at him.

“Not funny,” Arthur yells across the way, (Dom sniggers at this, the bastard) before turning back to the poor soul sitting behind him, saying, “look, I’m sorry, I thought you were that _douche bag_ _over there_.” He says the last part loud enough for Eames to hear, who just laughs harder.

A door to the lecture hall suddenly slams open, and as Professor Saito bursts into the room, Arthur sends one last glare in Eames’ direction before turning to face the professor.

He can still hear Eames laughing.

“Right,” Saito says authoritatively, “we’re starting the project today.”

Someone lets out an involuntary cheer. Saito just smirks, and slams his briefcase on his desk before looking at the class with his usual intense stare.

“You’re to get a partner—no, I’m choosing who that is, Angela,” Saito says with some amusement, as the girl in question had immediately swung her hand out to catch her boyfriend’s arm with quite the audible slap. “And you two, as a team, will write and draw your own comic book.

A buzz of excitement swells through the room.

“Now, there are a few guidelines to this project—is everyone writing this down, I’m not going to repeat myself,” Professor Saito says sternly, and the sound of students all opening their notebooks fills the auditorium.  “Good.  Now, your assignment will be to create a comic book that _does not contain any superheroes._ ”

“What?” a girl sitting a few rows in front of Arthur hisses to her friend, as a murmur of dissent travels through the class. Dom groans in the seat next to him.

“Does everyone understand?” Saito asks.  “No superheroes. I know this may anger some of you,” he says, looking more stern that usual, “but I don’t really care.”

“Now, the whole thing needs to be at least 20 pages long…”

As the professor drones on with particulars Arthur dutifully writes it down, ignoring the occasional grumbles of annoyance from his fellow students.  The news about no superheroes doesn’t affect Arthur in the slightest; no matter the particulars, Arthur knows he’s going to dread it just the same.

“If you follow these rules to the ‘T’, there is no reason you should not be able to pass this class,” Professor Saito finally says. “And now, let’s split you all up. Everyone, reach under your seats.” There’s a tizzy of noise as everyone moves to comply. Arthur leans forward and reaches underneath his chair; he immediately feels an index card taped to the wood, and rips it off. ’28,’ it reads.  He looks at Dom’s card; it says ’49.’

“There are 256 cards, 128 pairs,” Professor Saito explains.  “Now everyone go find your match.”

As Dom shoots out of his chair, Arthur looks around for Ariadne.  But with everyone up and about, mulling around aimlessly, finding her just sitting looks to be impossible. He’s just about to get up and finally go look for his partner (Ariadne, Ariadne, _please_ let it be Ariadne) when Arthur manages to catch Eames looking at him.  He smiles when he sees Arthur meeting his gaze.  “What number are you?” Eames calls out, over the roar of students talking.

Arthur holds up his card. “Twenty-eight.”

“No fucking way,” Eames exclaims, surprised, and his grin brightens. He holds up his card. “Me too.”

“You’re shitting me,” Arthur says, and he gets up and walks over to where Eames is sitting. “Gimme that,” Arthur snaps, and rips the card from his pliant hand. ’28,’ it reads, and the black sharpie reflects the light back into his eye, as if mocking him. “Fucking fuck,” he groans, sinking into the unoccupied seat next to Eames.

“Oh, come on, darling, being my partner won’t be _that_ bad.” He puffs out his chest, grinning. “I’m an excellent drawer, if I do say so myself.”

“Right.”

“I _am_ an Art Major.”

“No you aren’t,” Arthur sighs, plopping his head down to rest into his palm. He tiredly watches the rest of the class gradually settle down, still searching for Ariadne.

He thinks about who got Ariadne as a partner, and then decides not to think about it.

“I’m flattered by how easily you believe me, Arthur,” Eames spits out suddenly, his voice suddenly heated, and Arthur raises his head to look at the other in surprise.

“No, _of course_ I don’t know my own major,” Eames continues.  “Heaven help it if Arthur disagrees with anything I say.”

“Woah, what’s wrong with _you_ today?” Arthur asks, alarmed. In all the weeks of knowing Eames, he’s neverseen him angry.

Eames scoffs, face twisted into a sneer. “You _obviously_ don’t want to be partnered with me. Not the most encouraging thing to hear, is it, Arthur.”

“Woah, okay, _fine_. You’re right,” Arthur says. “I’m _sorry._ ”

“Right.”

“No, really. _Eames,_ ” he says, when the other sullenly looks away. He puts what he hopes is an encouraging hand on Eames’ forearm.  “No really, I’m actually glad it’s someone I know, okay?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You know I’d hate to be partnered with some idiot, who’d slack off and leave all the work to me,” he urges.

“Yeah, well, I _still_ might be some idiot who’d slack off and leave all the work to you,” Eames retorts.

“Ha ha, very funny,” Arthur replies, and he grins tentatively, hoping the tense moment is over for good.

“Um, excuse me? You’re in my seat,” some girl suddenly says, and Arthur glances up. The girl smiles, waving her manicured nails at him mockingly.

“Yeah, uh, let’s meet at the Lounge after class or something,” Arthur tells Eames, getting up from the chair, “to find out when we can work on-”

“Um, hello? Sometime this century?” the girl snaps, impatient.

“Oh my fucking god, _all right_ ,” Arthur sighs, and with a wave to Eames slips back to his own desk.

 

 

Eames doesn’t show up after class.

This initially worries Arthur; if he’s already sullied his relationship with the guy he’ll be working with for the next two months, their project is surely doomed from the start. But Eames shows up the next class with only smiles and his usual antics, so Arthur’s apprehension is laid to rest.

Arthur makes sure to catch Eames after class the next time, forcing him to hang around after Saito’s lecture is over to mash out a schedule, and after hawkishly overseeing Eames enter the first date into his phone calendar deems him free to go.

“Stick-in-the-mud,” Eames mutters under his breath, as they both get up from their desks to leave.

“This ‘stick-in-the-mud’ is going to save your grade, asshole,” Arthur snaps. “Stop complaining.”

Eames follows Arthur to the door. “What makes you think my grade needs saving?”

“I’ve seen your test results. They’re horrendous.”

“Oh, yes, thank you for being so nosy, Arthur,” Eames says, rolling his eyes. “Maybe I get all the points I need from homework and _participation_.”

“You spend most of class time kicking the back of my chair, I’ve never seen you turn in even _one_ page of homework and you’ve never taken notes in your _life._ This project will make or break you, Eames, don’t think I haven’t figured that out.”

“Has anyone told you that you know too much?” Eames asks, somewhat amused. He opens the door to the building and they step out into the chilly air of October.

“There’s no such thing as knowing too much. Only knowing too little.”

“Is that your philosophy on life then, darling?” Eames hums, considering. “Explains quite a lot.”

“Oh shut up,” Arthur says dismissively, but he ducks his head to hide his grin. Eames chuckles softly and nudges him with his shoulder.

They’ve wandered across campus during this exchange, heading over to the residential part of their college. Arthur’s dorm comes up first on the right and he peels away. “See you tomorrow, Eames,” he says, and then walks off.

“Bye,” Eames calls after him, but Arthur’s mind is already on the afternoon of studying ahead of him and he doesn’t acknowledge Eames’ farewell.

Once he’s back in his room, Arthur quickly gets down to work.  Dom soon ambles in, clutching a mug full of coffee to his chest and muttering something about the Green Lantern, and Arthur is struck with a sudden thought; he hasn’t even bothered to find out who Dom’s partner is for their project. Overcome with curiosity, he says, “Hey, you know you never told me who your partner is, for the whole Saito’s project. Thing.”

Dom, who had taken a sip of coffee just as Arthur spoke, promptly chokes into his cup, hacking up the coffee that he’d so unfortunately inhaled. 

“Um. Paul. Paul Chen?” Dom wheezes out, after he manages to compose himself. But talking only aggravates his throat even more, and he devolves into another coughing fit.

Usually, Arthur would be berating Dom to no end, amicably laughing at his friend’s plight while alternately slapping him on the back in an attempt to help him.

But Arthur, sharp and perceptive as ever, can’t help but notice that Cobb is _lying;_ lying about his partner, lying about the project, and for the life of him, Arthur just can’t figure out _why_.

It puts him off, unbalances him, and when he turns back to his work, the thought niggles at his mind the rest of the evening.

 

* * *

 

Saturday soon rolls around, and much to Arthur’s surprise Eames is the one waiting in Arthur’s usual study room, the meeting place they’d agreed upon.

Eames attempts to make conversation, spouting out some nonsense about football ( _‘no, not that bloody awful mess you Americans call a sport’_ ) but when Arthur slaps down his notebook—opened to the project guidelines Arthur had taken down so diligently in class—and forces Eames to go over them, he gives up on the chatter.

“So! I’ve got ideas,” Eames exclaims with a flourish of his arms, once Arthur’s _certain_ Eames knows what they _both_ have to do in order to get an acceptable grade. Much to the chagrin of his class, Saito had announced that the project counts as half their grade—even Arthur is nervous about this one.

“Do you now.”

“Absolutely,” he says, nodding. Eames reaches into a pocket, pulling out a stained and severely wrinkled paper napkin; he flattens it out onto the table. “They came to me during breakfast.”

“Oh boy.”

Eames’ smile only brightens at Arthur’s response.  He squints down at his writing. “Alright, idea number one: zombies.”

“Zombies.”

“Think Shaun of the Dead.”

Arthur sighs. “Too unoriginal; I’m sure half of the groups are going to cook up some horribly clichéd end-of-the-world zombie… plot.”

“But zombies, Arthur. _Zombies._ ”

“This is inspired by the upcoming Walking Dead premiere, I’m assuming,” Arthur says, thinking back to the advert he’d seen floating around on the Internet.  “Look, I’m not saying I’m impartial to zombies, Eames,” Arthur says, when Eames opens his mouth to protest, “I’m just saying we have to come up with something _better_.”

“Oh thank you for contributing, Arthur,” Eames says with a wry smile.  “Alright, then what about… British spies?”

“Oh, so it would never be _American_ spies.”

“My _God_ you are infuriating. Evil clowns, then.”

“Oh _fuck_ no.”

“Magical musicians.”

“…I. I don’t even know what to say to that.”

“Gay pirates.”

Arthur does a double take. “The fuck?”

Eames barks out a laugh. “You have no imagination, darling.”

“That’s not called having no imagination; that’s called having common _sense_. Next,” he says, waving his hand at Eames absentmindedly.

Eames continues to drone on, his English accent monotonous yet soothing, but nothing he suggests sits right with Arthur. But then Eames says “What about… dreams?” and Arthur, who had this point in their conversation been reduced to a moaning lump on the table, perks up.

“Elaborate?”

“Well, perhaps it could be people able to control their own dreams? Or, shit, what about _people seeing other people’s dreams?_ ” Eames seems to be in his element now; he shoves his dirty napkin away, letting it flutter to the carpet, and Arthur knows these ideas are what Eames is coming up with on the spot.

“And what would be the rationale to that?” Arthur asks.

“Well, you know how your dreams are most often… well let’s say ‘reflections’ of your day to day thoughts and actions? Your thoughts, your secrets; they’re all vulnerable when you’re asleep. So maybe it’s a team of people trying to access—no, _steal_ —your secrets through your dreams?”

“So it would be like a heist plot, but in your _mind?_ ”

“Exactly,” Eames declares, smug.

“I. I have to admit, I’m impressed,” Arthur asserts, leaning back in his chair.

Eames has a hint of a smile on his face. “Your condescension is always appreciated, Arthur, thank you.”

 

 

It takes them another two hours, but they manage to hash out a concise plot for their comic book, as well as lay out the particulars of this dream-theft idea that they decide to call ‘extraction’. Eames is full of ideas; and as much as Arthur is loathe to admit it, he is completely left behind in the wake of Eames’ creativity. He still harbors suspicions that Eames is planning on leaving all the work to Arthur in the end, but as Eames continues to spout out ideas, he allows the other the benefit of the doubt.

Arthur does contribute in the end, coming up with the idea to base the two main characters (partners in crime, and fugitives on the run) off of themselves. Eames gushes over this for quite a while, and Arthur admittedly preens under the praise.

They start winding down when it nears 6 o’clock.  Arthur is neatly copying over all the things he and Eames had scribbled down in the heat of their discussion earlier, and when he realizes that Eames has been unnaturally silent for quite some time, spares him a glance. Eames is hunched over a piece of paper, his pencil moving furiously across the page.

“The fuck are you doing?” Arthur hisses.

“Drawing,” Eames replies immediately. “ _Obviously._ It’s for the book.”

“Let me see?”

“I-. Here.” Eames shoves the paper across the table. Arthur slides it around.

The page is filled with drawings; bold, deft strokes forming smooth figures, all clad in suits and ties, bristling with weaponry. Although clearly done in a hurry, each figure is masterfully formed and quite realistic. Arthur is completely surprised.

“Eames, these are _great_ ,” Arthur breathes out. “Where’d you learn to draw like this?”

“My mum made me take lessons,” Eames says, shrugging. The faintest blush skates across his cheeks. He laughs sheepishly. “I fell in love with it. Been drawing ever since.”

“So I guess you _are_ an Art Major,” Arthur jibes, holding the paper up to look more closely at the figures.

“Oh fuck you,” Eames laughs out, breathless.

“So what is all this, then?” Arthur asks, motioning to the paper.

“Uh. Yes. That’s you, I suppose,” Eames says, almost hesitantly, as if still unsure of Arthur’s reaction.  He points his pencil at a figure standing in just slacks and a waistcoat, holding what looks to be an AK-47. He’s scowling.  “And then me, next to you,” Eames continues, pointing at a figure dressed in a somewhat ratty-looking suit. He’s holding a metal suitcase, looking smug.

“That’s the device we haven’t come up with a name for?” Arthur asks, pointing a finger at the suitcase.

“That’s the idea.”

“Well if this is how well you draw, our comic book is going to be _awesome_. Because I can’t draw for _shit._ ”

“You mean there’s something in this world that Arthur _doesn’t_ excel at?” Eames gushes, feigning awe.

“Fuck you,” Arthur snaps, but he’s smiling.  “Here, fuckwad,” he says, shoving the paper back over to Eames. “Actually make yourself useful and _draw_ more.”

“Yes _sir,”_ Eames mocks, and when he immediately starts scribbling away, Arthur resumes his previous work, a smile creasing the corners of his mouth.

 

 

“So,” Eames starts, nonchalant, as they’re finally packing up to leave. “We should grab dinner after this. Get something from the Lounge, maybe.”

“Wish I could,” Arthur replies, and is surprised to find he actually _means_ it. “It’s just, Dom and I and a group of our friends have this Saturday night barbeque tradition that we’ve been doing for years. I mean, you’re welcome to join us, if you want?” He shrugs.

“That’s a pity,” Eames says, and he smiles gently.  “As I wouldn’t want to impose on your tradition, seems I’ll be skipping out on this one.”

“Suit yourself,” Arthur replies, as he watches Eames get up from the table to leave. “See you Monday then, I suppose.”

“Right,” Eames replies. “Monday.” And with a little backward wave disappears through the door.

Arthur soon follows him, slinging his backpack across his shoulders as he makes a beeline for the library’s exit. He’s throwing open the door, heading in the direction of his dorm when he spots Eames some feet away, slumped against the outside wall of the library, head tilted back to expose his long, pale neck.

Arthur’s about to call out to him, but then Eames lifts a hand up to rub at his eyes, drawing a palm down his face, and there’s exhaustion written all over him, as well as sorrow; heavy, long-suffered sorrow, and Arthur stops himself.

Instead, he sends one last pitying glance towards Eames, and walks away.

 

* * *

 

The end of October rolls around, bringing about the last of the fall chill, and soon the college is buzzing with Halloween fever.  It’s one afternoon after class that Ariadne kindly invites them all to a party going down on Saturday, the night before Halloween.  Arthur doesn’t even have to think about it.  He buys his costume the next day (Sherlock Holmes: hat, pipe and all) and it’s he who drags Dom (dressed as Watson, the uncreative little prick) along come seven Saturday evening.

“Do we even know whose place this is?” Arthur hisses into Dom’s ear, as they near the house. Arthur can hear the thumping of speakers even a block away.

“Nash’s?” Dom replies absently, and quite unsurprisingly abandons Arthur the moment they reach the front lawn, moving off in a vague line towards the back of the house.

“The fuck is Nash?” Arthur mutters, and moves across the lawn alone.

When Arthur slips inside, he is immediately greeted by a guy in a dinosaur suit drunkenly staggering across the entryway, tripping over an umbrella stand and falling face first to the floor. Arthur takes a deep breath, reminds himself that he’s here for _Ariadne_ , then steps over the prone figure and moves further inside.

He doesn’t find Ariadne in his first casual sweep of the house, and after the third girl of the night (not Ariadne, _never_ Ariadne) asks him to dance, Arthur decides he needs a drink. He moves for the kitchen, determinedly slipping through the crowd.

And that’s when he spots Eames.

He’s standing in the bright lights of the kitchen, dressed up in a Captain America costume, shield leaning against his leg and beer bottle clutched in his hand.  There’s a group of people around him, sitting on the counter or leaning against it, all with red, plastic cups and beer bottles and one of them must have said something particularly funny, because Eames suddenly throws his head back and laughs and laughs amd laughs.

He’s not a _log;_ Eames’ good looks aren’t lost on him. But as much as he can appreciate his own sex, his mind hasbeen completely preoccupied with Ariadne these past few months (okay, make that a _year_ ), so it comes as somewhat of a shock how fucking _attractive_ he finds Eames in this moment, laughing in the light, so relaxed, so _happy,_ and suddenly Arthur is overcome, with… with…

“Arthur!” a voice cries behind him.

He whirls around.

It’s _Ariadne._

“Ari. Hi. _Hi._ ”

“’Sup,” she says, raising her cup in salute. She’s dressed up as an Egyptian pharaoh, complete with the beard and kilt. The costume should be off-putting, but all Arthur can do is try not to drool over the expanse of pale skin the kilt reveals, and just stare back into those deep brown eyes currently shaped with thick lines of kohl.

Eames is forgotten.

“Nice, um, nice costume,” Arthur manages. He so fucking wishes he had a drink right now.

“Thanks,” she says, twirling. The kilt rides up as she does this. Arthur resists the urge to gape. “I’m glad you came, Arthur.”

“I’m still deciding if _I_ am,” he replies, even as he thinks ‘ _no you aren’t no you aren’t no you aren’t.’_

Ariadne laughs, before lightly punching his shoulder. “Douche,” she says through a grin.

Arthur grins back, and wonders why his heart forgot to let him know of its newfound career as a tap dancer.

“Hey, um, I thought you were bringing Dom,” she mentions offhandedly, taking a sip from her cup.  “You two are attached at the hip, so where is he?”

“No idea. He kind of wandered off across the lawn when we got here.”

“Maybe he was looking for Nash?”

“Oh so do _you_ have any idea who the fuck Nash is?” Arthur asks.

“And speaking of which,” Ari says happily, completely oblivious to Arthur’s question, “where’s that little angel Nash gone off to now?”

And to the utter bemusement of Arthur, she glides away, seemingly in search of this most elusive Nash.

“That doesn’t fucking help, Ari,” he mutters fondly under his breath, and watches her retreading form with longing.

“Arthuuur,” someone unexpectedly purrs by his ear.

“Ugh, Eames, not _now,_ ” he groans, once again moving off towards the kitchen; he’ll need a drink for this. Unsurprisingly, Eames follows him, his shield clanging against his shin as he walks.

“So when would be a better time, love? Shall I come back in an hour, perhaps? Will you be ready then?”

“Funny, Eames,” Arthur deadpans.  “Where’s the beer?”

Eames points over at a cooler sitting next to the stainless-steel refrigerator.

“So where’s Dom, then?” Eames asks, when Arthur emits a sound of pleasure, diving for the cooler. He opens the lid and takes out a deliciously cool bottle. “Did he skip out on the party?"

“Why the _fuck_ does everyone want to know where Dom is?” Arthur snaps. He pops open the beer and takes a swig, then irritably wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s like no one wants to be around me unless Dom is there. Is spending more than five minutes with me really all that terrible?”

“Never,” Eames says, without a moment’s hesitation.

The sincerity in his voice makes something in Arthur’s chest squeeze, and then _burn._

Not knowing how else to react, Arthur just takes another swig of his beer.

“Nice uh, nice party,” Eames offers, his voice harshly cutting through the awkward pause. 

Arthur looks out from the kitchen at the party beyond. Phoenix has just started blaring through the speakers, and the living room is alive with costumed figures dancing, the smell of weed prevalent. But the beer is good and the spirits even better, if the array of bottles Arthur can see on the kitchen counter is anything to go by.

And then Arthur thinks of Ariadne, with her kohl-lined eyes and the smile _he_ had put on her face, and that moment when he’d looked across the crowded room and seen only Eames, and he knows the other has got a point.

“Yeah,” Arthur admits, “I guess it kinda is.”

Eames smiles triumphantly, as if getting Arthur to confess he’s enjoying himself is such an accomplishment.

“You know, I’ve just realized something,” Eames says matter-of-factly, after a moment.  He points between the two of them. “We’re being ironic, Arthur. Because I’m dressed up as Captain America and you’re _Sherlock Holmes._ National icons and all, you understand. But _I’m_ British and _you’re_ American. Thus, the irony.”

Arthur scoffs. “Elementary, my dear Mr. Eames,” he slyly responds, in his best English accent, before sticking his pipe between his teeth and quirking his mouth into a smile.

Eames eyes widen, and he chokes on his drink.

Arthur simply twirls his cape.

“And to think,” Eames rasps, eyes bugging, “Arthur is capable of humor!”

“Really?” Dom says, suddenly emerging from the crowd. “That’s certainly news to me.”

“You should have seen it, love. Arthur actually _twirled his cape._ ”

“No way.”

“I have an excellent sense of humor, I’ll have you know,” Arthur snaps. “Whole other level and shit.”

“Doesn’t matter, darling,” Eames replies, grinning devilishly. “Because if no one else gets your humor than what’s the point of having it, see?”

“Are we talking about Arthur’s lack of humor?” Ariadne pipes up, unexpectedly appearing at Dom’s elbow. “Because there is some serious lacking there.”

“Abuse. All I get is abuse from you people,” Arthur groans, even as he flushes with pleasure at the thought of Ariadne _talking about him_.

“Oh you love us,” Ariadne chides, patting his arm.

“Nothing short of water-boarding would get Arthur to admit to that,” Dom explains. “He’s always had difficulties showing his affections.”

“Not hugged enough as a child there, Arthur?” Eames asks.

Arthur rolls his eyes. “If you people don’t stop, I _will_ leave.”

“You wouldn’t leave Nash’s party, surely?” Eames gasps. “No one just leaves Nash’s parties.”

“Nash does throw the best parties,” Dom agrees.

“He always has the Schnapps I like,” Ariadne says. “No one else has the Schnapps I like.”

“Can someone tell me who the _fuck_ Nash is?” Arthur cries.

“He always plays Lady Gaga,” Eames says, in echo of Ariadne. “No one else plays Lady Gaga.”

Arthur groans and downs the rest of his beer.

 

 

The bickering and the teasing don’t stop throughout the night, but at the end of the party Arthur has to admit he enjoyed himself.

After all, _Ariadne had talked to him._ With no one else present. So it was a brief few seconds, and she did wander off halfway through their conversation looking for someone else, but _still_. It all counts in Arthur’s book.

He wakes up the next morning with a hangover, but he barely feels the pain. He grins all the way through breakfast.

 

* * *

 

Arthur must’ve done _something_ right, because now Ariadne is _talking to him._

It’s just small moments; a few minutes before class, or in passing if they see each other on campus. But something changed after that party, because now Ariadne is _talking to him._

And then she takes to inviting him places; the movies when a particularly good film is out, or to her apartment for a drink or a Wii tourney.  True, she does invite Dom along, and Eames most of the time too, but the fact that it’s Ariadne asking and not Eames or Arthur’s subtle schemes, makes Arthur giddy with excitement. Because as much as Arthur wishes it was just him and Ariadne at the movies, at the Lounge, at her apartment, he doesn’t find the extra presence a bother; just spending time with Ari is enough.  Besides, they’ll get to that point eventually.  Arthur is sure of it.

 

* * *

 

Weeks come and go, and soon Arthur loses himself in the homework and schoolwork that is piling up just before midterms.  Arthur finds that studying with Yusuf is incredibly useful. Their nightly sessions are engaging and efficient, and although they share very few classes together, Arthur always leaves the study room feeling confident for the upcoming exams.

Work on the comic book speeds up as well. Arthur meets with Eames every Tuesday and Saturday, and after just a few weeks of work the plot is finally laid out, the characters are agreed upon, and all the details are decided. Eames begins to draw the final product; it’s slow work—Eames draws each panel so meticulously even Arthur gets exasperated—but it’s progress, and that’s all that Arthur really needs.

Arthur had originally been quite apprehensive about this part of their process; with no drawing skills to speak of, he’d imagined himself sitting there during their meetings, twiddling his thumbs with nothing to do. But to Arthur’s immense relief Eames ropes him into writing the dialogue, and they both find themselves buried in piles of work every time they meet.

And then there’s an afternoon when Eames fails to show up to one of their meetings, leaving Arthur waiting alone for more than an hour wondering where the _fuck_ Eames has gone off too.  Eames later cites an unavoidable occurrence with a washing machine and a plastic spoon as his excuse, and in lieu of this unfortunate incident happening _again,_ they come to the (mostly) consensual agreement that exchanging phone numbers is in order.

“This is for emergencies _only,”_ Arthur warns, as he begrudgingly enters his number into Eames’ contacts after class. “And if you call or text or whatever past midnight, I _will_ kill you.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Eames solemnly replies, tapping away on Arthur’s phone.

It takes just an hour afterward for Eames to call him, and he’s greeted with the wonderful image of Eames making a kissy-face at the camera while pulling the front of pants open—the absolute epitome of sleazy Myspace poses—as his caller-ID.

“That is the most revolting image I have ever laid eyes on,” Arthur immediately says upon answering, as Eames just laughs and laughs.

If Arthur doesn’t delete the picture later, well. Eames doesn’t have to know.

 

* * *

 

Arthur doesn’t talk to Eames on the phone again until after his Economics class.

They’re taking the midterm that day, and the whole lecture hall is silent save for the scratching of pencils on paper, the soft hum of the projector, and the clicking sound of the Professor snapping his glasses open and close repeatedly.

“Mr. Nash!”

A voice breaks through the silence. Arthur glances up sharply. Professor Browning is standing a few rows in front of Arthur’s desk, scowling down at a sort of scrawny guy. He’s looking up at the professor in horror and disbelief. In Browning’s hand is a water bottle.

“So _that’s_ Nash,” Arthur mutters to himself.

“You are attempting to cheat with this?” Professor Browning exclaims, before thrusting the water bottle into the air, a flap in the label fluttering open to reveal dark scribbling. There’s a gasp from the class, and Browning crushes the bottle in his hand.

“Come speak to me after class, Mr. Nash. I think we need to take this up with our Dean Maurice directly,” Browning says dangerously, before snatching up Nash’s test and ripping it in half with flourish.

And that’s when an idea comes to him.

Arthur and Eames have been trying for many days to come up with the perfect character for their comic book’s antagonist, but Arthur has one idea and Eames another and they haven’t been able to agree on the final result. But the way Nash looks in this moment—greasy hair and slimy look, with a panicked expression after _cheating on a midterm—_ he’s become the perfect model for their adversary.  Arthur grins, and returns to his test with a vengeance.

When the exam is finally over and Arthur is settled in front of his desk at his dorm, he pulls out his phone and calls Eames.

“Hullo?” Eames says upon answering.

“I’ve got an idea.”

There’s a heavy silence. “Is this… is this Arthur?” Eames finally asks.

“Yes, dimwit,” Arthur groans, rolling his eyes. “Haven’t you heard of caller ID?”

“Yes of course I have,” Eames exclaims, a grin in his voice. “What do you take me for, a heathen?”

“You don’t want me to answer that,” Arthur replies.

Eames laughs aloud. “I don’t need caller ID for _you_ ,darling.  If the person on the other line insults me within the first minute, well, it must be Arthur!”

“Oh hilarious. Can you hear how hard I’m laughing.”

“Alright, alright,” Eames breathes out, still chuckling, “so what is this you want to talk to me about?”

“So I had a thought about our comic book during my Economics midterm today.”

Eames gasps. “Arthur! You actually allowed your mind to wander during an _exam?_ ”

“There was a commotion,” Arthur protests. “I couldn’t help it.”

“A likely excuse.”

“Oh fuck you,” Arthur sighs out without any heat. “You want to hear this or not?”

“Yes, yes,” Eames says in defeat. “Let’s hear it.”

“So far we’ve based the two main characters in our comic book on, well, _us._ ”

“With just a few minor adjustments, like how they’re career criminals, ex-military, and carry around _AK-47’s_ instead of _textbooks_ , but yes, go on.”

“Well instead of creating entirely new characters for the book, why don’t we base each and _every_ one off people we know? Just like what we did with Arthur and Eames.”

There’s a pause on the line, as if Eames lost in thought. “But don’t you think Saito would be a little against basing _all_ of our characters on real people?” he says finally.

“Not if we put him in there too,” Arthur says, grinning.  “No, but in all honesty, I think he would be impressed if we managed to incorporate the people we know into the book. Come on, it’ll be incredible.”

“I’ll have to re-draw quite the number of pages,” Eames protests. “Do you know how many hours I’ve wasted drawing those pages?”

Arthur sighs, kneading his forehead with his knuckles.  “If you do this for me, I’ll make it all up to you, yeah?”

“Buy me dinner then,” Eames says immediately. “Buy me dinner and I’ll do it.”

“What? Oh, sure. How about tomorrow night? Breadstix, 7 o’clock?”

“Wha- really? You’d really- I mean. Uh. Really?”

“Yes, Eames,” Arthur says, exasperated.  “I really think this idea will work. And if it means buying you dinner or whatever then I’ll do it. Whatever it takes and shit.”

Eames makes an unintelligible sound.

“This is- it’s not a date,” Arthur continues. “Just a. A thing. To get you to do these changes. That’s all.”

“Right,” Eames says. “I know. Well. Tomorrow then.” There’s a click over the phone receiver, and then silence.

Arthur presses ‘end’ on his phone then lets it drop down to the desk in front of him. He sits at his desk silently, staring down at the gradually darkening screen of his cell.

He wonders why he feels he has to assure Eames it won’t be a date.

But more pressingly, he wonders why he has to assure himself too.

 

* * *

 

“Professor Miles wants to see me after class today.”

Arthur glances up from his books and looks across the room, eyes widening. Dom is looking at Arthur pensively. “Said he has something to talk to me about?”

“That’s… that’s Mal’s father,” Arthur states unnecessarily. It isn’t a secret, it doesn’t need to be said, but Arthur can’t stop himself.

“Yeah,” Cobb says, tone subdued. “That’s Mal’s father.”

Arthur draws in air between his teeth. “Shit. _Shit._ What could he possibly want to talk to you about? I mean, you and Mal broke up months ago.  That’s over.”

“I know. But, well, he asked me.” Cobb shrugs, nonchalant, but the tightness around his eyes and in his shoulders reveals everything.

“So maybe he’s ready to forgive you,” Arthur muses aloud.  “Or just wants to finally lay all that shit to rest?”

“Yeah, but then again it could be some master plan to earn my trust. So that he can take me out back. And shoot me with his shotgun.”

“He wouldn’t need some shit plan,” Arthur laughs out, “he’d just shoot you.”

Cobb looks blankly at Arthur, and then suddenly drops his head to the table in front of him. “F _uck_ ,” he whimpers, rolling his head about _. “_ He would. He _would._ Oh my God, I’m so. _Fucked._ ” He suddenly grows silent, then whispers, “Why did I ever go out with her in the first place, Arthur?”

“She was beautiful. And smart. And French,” Arthur lists off. “Never knew she was bat-shit crazy.”

“She wasn’t… she wasn’t _crazy,_ ” Dom protests, voice still muffled by the desk.

Arthur can only look at his friend in pity. “She was going to _therapy_. And taking prescribed _drugs._ She threatened to kill herself _all the fucking time_ when you two were together _._ Now you tell me that’s not crazy.”

“I-. Fuck. You’re right. It’s just,” his voice cracks with emotion, but he goes on, “I miss her more than I can bear, sometimes.”

 “You’re better off without her, and you fucking know it,” Arthur replies; his words harsh but necessary. He tries not to feel anything when Dom lets out a dry sob.

“Fuck,” Dom swears angrily. “ _Fuck._ I just wish Miles hadn’t brought anything up. This is not the way to get over her, you know?”

“Yeah, I know,” Arthur says, and there’s nothing else he can say, because no, he really _doesn’t_ know, doesn’t know what Dom is feeling, what Dom is thinking, but he can’t go ahead and admit that. So he just lies, lies and hopes everything will work out in the end.

“So if he does take me out back and shoot me-,”

“-I’ll be sure to attend your funeral, yes.”

Dom gives him a weak smile.  “Yay,” he says, shaking his hands in the air in mock celebration. Arthur snorts.

“So what are _you_ up to tonight?” Dom asks a beat later.

“I’m going to dinner with Eames.”

“Eames?” Dom asks, incredulous. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Does it look like I’m kidding?” Arthur snaps. “And fuck you; it’s not what it sounds like. So because of _dinner_ , I won’t be here after your class, but you can tell me all the juicy details about your meeting when I get back.”

“After you get back from your date with Eames, you mean,” Dom sings, the expression on his face pure, uninhibited glee.

Arthur scowls. “I told you, it’s not what it fucking sounds like. Got it?”

Dom puts his hands up in surrender. “No need to get so defensive there, Arthur.”

Arthur snarls.

“Okay, okay, back to work I go,” Dom placates, simultaneously exasperated and fond.

“Good boy,” Arthur mutters, and turns back to studying.

 

 

“You are not going to fucking _believe_ what happened at dinner with Eames just now,” Arthur exclaims, slamming open the door to his room.  “Fucking _Eames._ That guy drives me absolutely-”

And then Arthur pauses, because Dom is standing in the middle of the room, back towards Arthur, sobbing his fucking heart out into his hands.

“…Dom?” Arthur says hesitantly. He takes a step forward, letting the door close softly behind him.  “Dom, what happened?”

“S-she killed herself, Arthur,” Dom chokes out, his voice sad and raw and _alone._ “She jumped off a fucking building and _died._ ”

He needs no further explanation.

_Mal._

“Oh no, oh no,” Arthur breathes, and he takes another step forward. “When?”

“Monday, I don’t know, does it _even fucking matter?_ ”

“Dom,” Arthur says, concerned. He takes another step, and reaches out to put a consoling hand on his friend’s shoulder

“Don’t- don’t _touch me_ ,” Dom instantly snaps, and he whirls away from Arthur’s hands like it burns. “I don’t need your sympathy, alright?” He finally turns his face towards Arthur; his face is blotchy, red; Arthur’s seen Dom cry, but it’s nothing like _this_. This is not sorrow. This is something worse.

“It’s not like… not like I-I cared for her, towards the end, or. Or anything,” Dom spits out bitterly.

“Don’t be a dick,” Arthur replies. “You still cared about her. She was a lovely person; even I thought so.”

The shove comes from out of nowhere. Arthur staggers back, shocked.

“You can’t say that, you’re _not allowed to say that_ ,” Dom hisses out. He’s livid now, a complete turnaround from his attitude just a moment ago.

“Wha-”

“ _Don’t act like you fucking knew her_ , you _bastard_. Because you didn’t and now she’s dead and hell, for all I know it could be _my fault_.”

“It’s not your fault, Dom, don’t be stupid,” Arthur snaps, impatient. “She was suicidal before you even knew her, you know that.”

“That’s not- but what if-?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Arthur reiterates.

“I… I’m _done_ with this shit,” Dom suddenly snarls, but there’s evidently a sob waiting at the back of his throat, because he shields away from Arthur’s gaze and chokes pitifully into his palm.  He glances up and sees Arthur watching him scrupulously; this seems to upset him even further, and before Arthur can stop him, Dom slips by him towards the door.

“Where are you fucking going?” Arthur calls.

“Out, I don’t know, what does it matter?” Dom staggers the last few steps to the door, collapsing against it.  “ _Fuck_ ,” he sobs out, and before Arthur can move to prevent him from going, Dom throws open the door and flees.

“Shit,” Arthur hisses. He kicks at his desk chair furiously, and the thing bangs against the side of his bed with a satisfying clash, before tipping over onto the carpet.

He stares at the chair—still rocking about on the ground do to Arthur’s ministrations—breath heaving, before swearing loudly and following Dom out the door.

 

 

Arthur scours the campus for Dom relentlessly, but after an hour of searching to no avail, he’s forced to abandon his search. He makes off to wander back to his dorm, but when his feet instead lead him to another building, another hall, another room, he can’t say he’s at all surprised.

He just hopes he remembers the number correctly.  After all, he’s never yet been to Eames dorm room before.

Taking a deep breath, he knocks twice on the door.

There’s a surprised sound from inside the room almost immediately, followed directly by a loud crash. “Hang on,” Eames calls out. There’s more crashing, a yelp of pain, and then the doorknob turns.

“Arthur!” Eames exclaims upon opening his door. He’s wearing a wife-beater and sweats, and his hair is sticking up on end, as if he’d just run sweaty palms through it. “To what do I owe this pleasure, so soon after we have parted? Came to get a little more of this?” Eames raises his hands in the air and thrusts his hips about, in what is no doubt an effort to look tempting.

“Whatever you’re trying to do, you’re failing at it spectacularly,” Arthur tells him.

“Oh thank you, Arthur,” Eames says, rolling his eyes. “Do come in; my roommate is most thankfully out of town and you are most welcome.” When Arthur steps forward, Eames does a little flourish with his arm and fucking _bows._

Arthur raises an eyebrow. “You’re drunk.”

“I could be just a little bit, I suppose,” he murmurs, before stumbling past Arthur to collapse face-first on his bed. “Probably just tipsy though.” His voice is muffled by his pillow.

Arthur glances about the room. There are a couple of posters of European bands on the wall above the bed, and colorful arrays of post-it notes swathe the empty spaces of the wall.  An empty bottle of Smirnoff is lying dejectedly on the floor, next to a pile of what is no doubt dirty underwear. Another bottle is standing half empty on Eames’ desk; flecks of paint litter the wood, and the glass of the bottle picks up the colors, morphing them into pale circles of multi-colored light.

“Thanks,” Arthur says, and while Eames looks up at him quizzically, Arthur grabs the bottle off the desk and lifts it to his lips. He takes a swig; the vodka burns down his throat, bitter and hot, before settling deep in his belly. He takes another.

Eames whistles in amazement. “Help yourself,” he says sarcastically, before, “so what the fuck happened?”

“What do you mean, ‘what the fuck happened.’” Arthur asks, moving to sit on the ground, his back against Eames’ bed.

“Something must’ve happened, because the Arthur I know just doesn’t _do_ that,” Eames says, much too knowingly. “Let’s hear it then.”

And then Arthur tells him.

Arthur finds himself omitting certain details—Mal’s mental instability and her eventual suicide—instead writing it off as relationship problems and accidental. This surprises himself at first, but as Arthur goes on he realizes it’s the right thing to do; it’s not his business to talk of such personal matters to anyone, let alone Eames. And if Dom later reveals the truth of these events to Eames, well, he could deal with Eames’ anger much better than with Dom’s.

Eames is silent throughout the entire exchange, save for the hiss of air through his teeth when Arthur tells him about Mal’s death. The room falls silent after Arthur’s finishes speaking; he takes another swig of the vodka to compensate before passing it off to Eames.

“Dom never told me about her,” Eames finally says. He’s now sitting upright on his bed, the pillow tossed to the floor to make room.

“He doesn’t like talking about… that. Besides, he’s not very keen on sharing all his dirty secrets in the first place, you know?” Arthur shakes his head. “I knew him a _year_ before he told me he’s an orphan. He was in foster care and everything.”

“No shit?” Eames says. “Never woulda pinned him as one of those kids.”

“He’s one of the lucky ones,” Arthur says. “At least, that’s what he _told_ me.”

“Huh,” Eames murmurs. “ _Huh._ ”

“My sentiments exactly,” Arthur says wryly. There’s another pause, and as Eames takes another long swill of the vodka, Arthur eyes wander down to the floor, where the corner of a drawing pad peeks out from under Eames bed. Unable to quell his curiosity, he picks it up. “You mind if I…” he trails off, waving the pad at Eames.

“Go right ahead,” Eames says, taking another swig from the bottle. It’s almost empty; Arthur wonders fleetingly if Eames has another one.

Arthur flips open the cover. Inside are sketches, masterfully drawn with confident strokes of bold charcoal. The first few pages are filled with half-finished doodles of characters from their comic book, faces and torsos with remnants of guiding lines not yet erased. But then Arthur gets to the middle of the book, and the subject changes.

There’re still drawings of people, but the style has changed into something more realistic; the charcoal forms the fluid lines of muscles and faces that have not been caricatured. Some of the figures are clothed, but the greater part is all drawn in the nude.  Arthur looks for figures of women, but it’s only the firm, narrow bodies of men that cover the pages of Eames’ sketchbook.

And that’s when it hits him.

“You’re gay, aren’t you,” Arthur blurts.

Eames chokes out a surpried ‘ _oh_ ,’ and Arthur reddens, realizing the magnitude of his accusation. “Sorry, sorry,” he rushes out, “forget I said that, it was the alcohol you know, and-”

“Yeah, I am. What of it?” Eames interrupts, eyes narrowing.

“Oh,” Arthur says intelligently. “Um.”

Eames frowns, looking down at his hands. “That’s not going to be a problem with you now, is it?”

“No, _no,_ of course not,” Arthur rushes out, quick to assure. “I mean, my mom’s sister is gay, so…”

“That’s different,” Eames says quietly.

“Eames,” he breathes, “ _Eames._ ” And he pushes himself off the floor, crawling onto Eames’ bed and sitting cross-legged right in the center of it. He stares at Eames intently, until the other finally meets his gaze. “It’s _not a problem._ ”

“Sure,” Eames says, but everything about him says he’s unconvinced.

“Have you… have you ever had a boyfriend?” Arthur finds himself asking. He resists the urge to knock his head against the walls in vexation, and hopes Eames doesn’t kick him out for prying.

“ _Yes_ , Arthur,” Eames affirms.  “Three, if you want to be specific.”

“…do you have one now?”

Eames barks out a bitter laugh, looking at Arthur through his eyelashes. “Would be nice.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Arthur agrees, thinking of Ariadne.

“So now that I’ve drunkenly revealed my ‘darkest secret’,” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm, “it’s your turn.”

“Really, Eames?” Arthur says, unimpressed. “We’re going to be like two teenaged girls at a slumber party and _swap secrets_?”

“Yes,” Eames declares. “Yes, or I’ll kick you out of my room.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Arthur says in disbelief.

“Oh _yes_ , I _would,”_ Eames replies, with such conviction that Arthur has no choice but to believe him.

Arthur thinks of making something up, but it’s the situation or the alcohol or Eames’ honestythat makes him change his mind.

“I… I’m in love with Ariadne.”

“Well _that’s_ not much of a secret,” Eames exclaims. “Try again.”

Arthur’s mouth drops open. “Wait… what?”

“Oh, don’t look so surprised, love,” Eames scoffs. “You didn’t make much of an attempt at hiding it. It’s a good thing Ariadne is so dense in these matters, or she would’ve figured you out ages ago.”

“You’ve known, all this time?” asks Arthur skeptically.

“Yup, and I’ve known that you used me too. To get into her pants and all that.”

Arthur’s heart plummets to his stomach.

“Would’ve gotten away with it too, if you hadn’t _done it so bloody much_ ,” Eames continues.

Arthur waits for the ball to drop, for Eames to start yelling, for Eames to push him off the bed and pound his face into the floor, but Eames just looks away, completely lost in thought.

“…you don’t _seem_ angry,” Arthur says finally. “Why are you not angry.”

Eames tips back the last vestiges of vodka. “I’m not. Figured I would’ve done it too if our situations had been reversed.”

“O-oh,” Arthur stammers, glancing away.

“But Arthur. Arthur, look at me,” Eames gently places his fingertips against Arthur’s cheek, turning his head. Once Arthur meets Eames’ gaze, he drops his hand to Arthur’s knee. “Arthur, you need to _tell_ her how you feel.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Arthur scoffs, his heart now soaring up to his throat. He looks down at his hands, then adds, “…you really think I should?”

“If you never _act_ on it, nothing with ever _come_ of it.”

“What if she rejects me?”

“Let’s put it this way, nothing you say will make the situation any worse for you than it is now.”

“But then I’ll know for _certain_ that she doesn’t want me.”

“So you’d rather be suspended in limbo, not knowing _shit_?” Eames asks.

“Maybe?” Arthur answers, uncertain. “…okay, no.”

“Thought so,” says Eames assuredly, and he reaches under his bed to pull out another bottle of Smirnoff. “So,” he says, twisting the bottle open, “now that I’ve given you my most _sage advice,_ it’s time for a real secret from you, darling. This is a cone of silence,” he motions toward the bed with the bottle. “Anything you say in here will remain between the two of us.”

Arthur considers Eames, chewing on his bottom lip in thought. Suddenly making up his mind, Arthur leans forward, slowly bringing his face closer to Eames’. It’s almost indiscernible, but Arthur just catches Eames eyes flick down to Arthur lips, before traveling back up to meet Arthur’s steady gaze. Arthur smiles faintly, and Eames’ eyes widen when Arthur lifts a gentle hand to his shoulder, allowing him to lean even further in, until his lips just about brush the shell of Eames’ ear.

Eames waits with bated breath, and then…

“I’m not drunk enough,” Arthur whispers.

The moment is gone in an instant. “Wanker,” Eames says. He shoves Arthur away, laughing breathlessly, but there’s something in his gaze that’s not laughing, something that Arthur would be able to recognize if his judgment wasn’t so clouded by the alcohol.

But he’s drunk, and getting more so by the minute, so Arthur just lets the matter lie.

 

* * *

 

Arthur wakes up sprawled across Eames’ bed with a hangover.

Eames is asleep in the other bed; the covers pulled up until only brown wisps of hair are visible on the pillow. Arthur shakes his head, laughing softly, before scribbling a post-it note of thanks that he leaves on Eames’ desk and quietly slipping out.

When Arthur gets back to his room it’s empty, his chair still overturned from where he kicked it last night in frustration. Dom evidently hadn’t been back to the room all night. But it’s Friday, 9 am, and Arthur has Saito’s class in an hour; he doesn’t have time to worry.

Dom doesn’t show up for class either.

But then Arthur gets back to his room, and Dom is sitting at his desk, dutifully hunched over his homework as if nothing had happened.

“Dom?” Arthur says hesitantly. “Look, about last night-”

“Can we just… not talk about it?” Dom interrupts, refusing to meet Arthur’s gaze. He nervously fiddles with his pencil, back hunched in apprehension.

“I’m sorry, man, about Mal, and-”

“Please?” Dom whispers.

Arthur’s fists clench, but he takes a breath and just _lets it go._

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Arthur replies. “Let’s just… not talk about it.”

And that, really, is that.

Arthur still _thinks_ about the night, runs it over in his head constantly, thinking about Dom and Mal and Dom leaving and _what he’d done wrong._ But mostly, he thinks about that vodka-hazed night he’d had with Eames, that started out as an innocent conversation and morphed into a confession-fest that turned so many things upside-down. And everything Eames had said to Arthur is clear as day in his mind:

 _Arthur, you need to_ tell _her how you feel._

 _If you never_ act _on it, nothing with ever_ come _of it._

_Let’s put it this way, nothing you say will make the situation any worse for you than it is now._

He doesn’t even _need_ to think about it, his mind is already made up. But he waits, mulling over Eames’ advice for hours, _days,_ trying to find some flaw, some reason to back out. But it’s in vain.

He makes up his mind Sunday. He tells Ariadne the very next day.

 

* * *

 

He waits until after their class together.

Saito dismisses them on time as he usually does, but Arthur doesn’t wait for Dom before leaving the lecture hall twenty minutes late as usual. This time he follows Eames and Ariadne as they walk towards the exit, then calls out Ariadne’s name, asking her to stop. Ariadne turns around, and Eames does the same, and Eames suddenly seems to understand Arthur’s objective, because he smiles and gives Arthur the thumbs up before walking out.

“What’s up?” Ariadne asks, waving distractedly as a friend of hers calls out a farewell.

“Can I talk to you for a sec? Outside?”

Ariadne’s brow furrows in uncertainty, but she nods and they both walk out. They stroll along the paths of the college, and they talk, but there’s a feeling in the air, a feeling that they both can sense; that Arthur has something to say, something significant, and that any minute the ball will drop. So Arthur makes up his mind. He stops, and when Ariadne turns to look at him, he places his hands gently on her shoulders and breathes.

He practiced this for hours last night, rehearsing in front of the mirror and running through all possible outcomes, reciting his speech over and over again until he could deliver it in his sleep. But that all flies away in an instant, because Ariadne is looking at him imploringly, eyes wide and curious, and she’s warm and delicate and _perfect_ beneath Arthur’s hands and how did he expect himself to remember anything he’d practiced with _this_ in front of him?

 _Oh fuck it_ , he suddenly thinks. He lifts his hands from where they rest on Ariadne’s shoulders, cups her jaw reverently, leans in and kisses her.

Ariadne stiffens under his lips, so Arthur keeps the kiss short, chaste; but he can’t help the mantra of ‘ _oh shit oh shit oh holy shit_ ’ that’s buzzing through his head, because he is finally, _finally,_ kissing Ariadne.

He pulls away, and with lips still tingling, smiles gently.

And his heart sinks into the floor when he finally takes in Ariadne’s petrified expression.

“Fuck,” she exclaims, and then bursts into tears.

“Oh my god,” Arthur says, and the cold panic wipes away _everything._ “Oh my god. Look, I didn’t mean it.  Ari, come on, stop crying, I didn’t mean it.”

“Yes you did, don’t be an idiot, _yes you did,_ ” Ariadne says, and she half-heartedly punches Arthur’s shoulder, before letting her arm fall, looking even more dejected than before.  “But that’s not the point, okay?”

“Then what is the point?”

“The point is… the point is that— _I’m in love with Dom_ , _alright?_ ”

His heart shudders to a stop.

“…what?”

“I like you, Arthur, _a lot,_ ” she continues, voice faint. “But when we—oh Arthur, don’t make me say this,” she pleads. She looks at Arthur pleadingly, face strewn with the wet tracks of tears, and her eyes are puffy and her cheeks are blotchy but Arthur needs to hear it all.

“Say it,” he bites out. “Just fucking say it and _spare me the pity parade.”_

“I… we’re partners for the-the comic book. We’re partners and, just, somewhere through those meetings and the lunches and the late nights working together something _happened._   I-I fell in love with him. And he… he fell in love with me too.” Her whole body shudders with another sob. “Oh, _Arthur._ I didn’t want this to happen. Oh my _fuck,_ I didn’t want it to happen.”

Arthur stands there in shock, staring down at Ariadne as she heaves huge wracking sobs into her hands. He’s numb, everything is numb, he doesn’t even _hurt_ as he watches her cry, but there’s something else there, something else that Arthur needs to face.

“…did you sleep with him?” Arthur asks quietly.

“What?”

“ _Did you sleep with him?_ ”

The reply is faint, a tiny murmur that Arthur can barely hear over the sound of his own ragged breathing.

“…yes.”

Somewhere deep down, Arthur already knew.

“Oh. Okay. Okay,” Arthur says robotically. “That’s…”

“I’m sorry, Arthur,” she chokes out. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Really. Okay, well, I’m going to go now, okay Ariadne, so don’t. Don’t follow me.”  He whirls around, walking away numbly.

“Arthur?” Ariadne calls after him, but Arthur ignores her voice, pushing forward with determination.  He walks slowly, but with purpose, and when he finally (f _inally_ ) spots Dom pushing open the door of the Cobol building, the numbness melts away, and the anger, the resentment, the _hurt_ well up in his chest, overtaking all reason, all thought.

“DOM,” he roars, and Dom stops short, turning to look at Arthur pounding up the path towards him.

“Arthur…?”

“YOU MOTHERFUCKER,” Arthur screams, and he lays waste to Dom’s face with his fist.

 

 

There’s a loud, ever-sounding noise somewhere far off, high pitched, as if a girl is screaming, and it sounds like his name and ‘stop, stop, Arthur _stop_ ’ but all his can feel is Dom’s face being crushed underneath his hands,

Then suddenly from nowhere, there’re strong hands gripping his arms, pulling at his shoulders, ripping him up and away from Dom’s still form, and he’s fighting, clawing his way back, intent on his objective and Dom and his bloody, bloody face, and he can see red dripping from where his split knuckles are burning like wildfire, but all he wants is to tear them even more on Dom’s face. But there are three pairs of arms barring his way, and when he tries again to get through someone steps forward and shoves him back.

“Get the fuck out of here,” that someone warns, giving him another shove, and even Arthur can’t take on three guys at once, so he tears away from the scene and leaves, just leaves, never looking back.

 

* * *

 

There’s a trail of blood leading back behind him, but Arthur doesn’t care.

His split knuckles sting like a motherfucker, but Arthur doesn’t care.

There’s a bruise on his cheek where Dom managed to lay one back on him, but Arthur doesn’t care.

All he cares about is the door standing in the front of him, and the person inside the room.

_Eames._

Lifting a bloody hand, Arthur pounds on the door with his palm, and when it opens it’s such a fucking relief Arthur nearly collapses to his knees.

“…Arthur?” says Eames.

 “I need a place to stay tonight,” Arthur says. There’s a sob waiting somewhere in the back of his throat, choking his voice into a hoarse whisper. He feels hysterical, emotions plastered across his face like a Technicolor billboard. “Please,” he begs, and that’s all he can do.

Eames doesn’t even blink.  “Right,” he says, and he opens the door wider to let Arthur in.

 

 

A half hour later, Arthur somehow finds himself in one of Eames’ sweatshirts with his hands bandaged tightly, sitting on a chair with yet another bottle of Smirnoff in hand. 

There’d been quite the scene in the communal bathroom; Eames had told an unwilling Arthur to clean himself up, but Arthur, ever the stubborn one, had refused.

So Eames had done it himself.

He’d been surprisingly efficient; gently swiping Arthur’s knuckles with rubbing alcohol before wrapping his hands in bandages.

“You’ve done this before,” Arthur had said quietly, looking at Eames’ reflection in the mirror.

Eames had smiled. “I wasn’t the most _behaved_ 15-year-old, if that’s what you mean,” Eames had said, tapping the bandage on Arthur’s right hand before starting in on the left.

Eames had then forced a hoodie onto Arthur, threatening to put it on Arthur himself if he refused to wear it. Arthur eventually had obliged, but not without much rolling of the eyes and sighing.

And that’s how Arthur finds himself sitting on a chair, facing Eames lounging back on his bed, staring steadily at him. Arthur takes a swig of the Smirnoff and stares back.

“So we’re doing this again, I see,” Eames says. “That vodka doesn’t come cheap, you know.”

“You were the one who _gave_ it to me,” Arthur retorts.

“Touché,” Eames says, nodding his head.

Arthur smirks, before taking a long swill from the bottle. He needs to get _drunk._

“So I’ve said _this_ before—are you going to tell me what happened, Arthur?”

“No.”

“I like you pissed, darling, believe me I do. But this,” he motions towards Arthur, “this bitchy pissed I’m not a fan of.”

“Fuck’s that supposed to mean,” Arthur says.

“It means get off your high-horse and _tell_ me, you twat.”

“Well I followed your _sage advice,”_ Arthur begins, picking at the label on the bottle. “I told Ariadne.”

“And?”

“And it turns out Dom and Ariadne are fucking. So jolly good, cheerio, mate,” Arthur mocks.

Eames snorts. “You’re a piece of work, love,” he says fondly.

“Why do you do that, Eames?” Arthur asks

“Hmm?”

“Why do call me that? Call me ‘love’ and ‘darling’; you used to do it to everyone, but now it’s only… me.”

Eames’ eyes widen, and when he bites his bottom lip, Arthur can’t stop his eyes from dropping down to gaze at Eames’ mouth.

“I honestly don’t notice,” Eames says.

“Yeah,” continues Arthur, “You would do it so fucking much when we worked on the comic book together. You’d never call me Arthur, like, at all.”

“I don’t notice,” Eames reiterates quietly.

“Speaking of the project,” Arthur begins, pointing an unsteady finger in Eames’ direction. “Did I… Did I ever tell you how, how surprised I was you didn’t go all slacker on me during all of it? Well then again, who knows? You still could leave all the work to me,” Arthur muses, lifting the bottle of Smirnoff to his lips. “You really do strike me as a slacker.”

“Oh for fuck’s _sake_ , Arthur, would you _stop it!?”_ Eames snaps.

Arthur stares back blankly. “What?”

Eames glares at him, teeth bared in a sneer. “You know, I try to act civil, Arthur, I do _nice things_ for you. And I hate incompetence as much as any other, but you’ve got it stuck in your head somewhere that I’m not like that. It’s like you think I can’t handle my shit. God dammit, Arthur, _I can handle my shit._   I’m here on a full-ride scholarship for fuck’s sake. When are you going to get in through your thick skull that I’m not like that?” Eames glares at him, breathing hard from his rant, and Arthur can see Eames’ tongue and his eyes are an intense slate of blue and gray and he really couldn’t stop himself even if he tried.

Arthur crawls into his lap.

“Woah, woah,” Eames cautions, his anger and frustration immediately forgotten, and he holds his hands up and leans back, as if in an attempt to get away from Arthur’s advances. “Arthur, what the fuck are you doing?”

“Kissing you,” Arthur replies.

And he does.

It’s sloppy at first, because Arthur is more than a little drunk and Eames is sitting there like he’s paralyzed, but then Arthur jams his tongue down Eames’ throat and everything changes. Eames makes a choking noise of pure _want,_ and in the next instant he surges forward, hands firmly on Arthur’s waist. Arthur growls, jamming his fingers through Eames’ hair and proceeds to fuck Eames’ mouth with his tongue.

But then Arthur feels gentle but insistent hands on his shoulders, pushing him back and away, and the desperate sound he makes when he realizes what Eames is doing makes the other shudder, and curl his fists into Arthur’s shirt, but he holds firm.

“Arthur, no, stop,” Eames groans, breathless, looking at Arthur with pupils blown wide.

“Why?” Arthur begs, and he pushes forward, trying so desperately to kiss him again.

“You’re not going to remember this in the morning,” Eames states, but he sounds uncertain.

“No, probably not,” Arthur agrees. “I’m just _really drunk_ , ya know? But come on, _come on,”_ he urges, fighting against Eames’ grasp, “let’s do this.”

“No, Arthur. _No.”_ And he pushes Arthur away from him so hard he’s forced to stand up, towering above Eames still sitting on the bed.

“I want this, you _clearly_ want this; what the fuck, Eames?”

“I just don’t want to be the guy you sleep with because you’re fucking _heartbroken_ , alright?”

Arthur studies Eames’ face, contemplating his words, _thinking_ ;and even though he is so completely wasted, strung-out and desperate, something tells him to _stop_. “Fine,” he finally snaps, stumbling clumsily to the door. “Then I’ll just go, since that’s what you so _obviously_ want me to do.”

“Ohhh, no you don’t,” Eames says, and he’s suddenly by Arthur’s side, grabbing his arm and pulling him back into the room. “There’s no way I’m letting you out while you’re so thoroughly pissed. Here,” he shoves a protesting Arthur at his bed, and he unwillingly tumbles in. “Go to sleep. I’ll wake you in time for class.”

“I can wake _myself_ up,” Arthur growls, burying his head into Eames’ pillow.

“Right, Arthur. Right,” Eames says, throwing a blanket over him. “Now say ‘goodnight Eames’.”

“…goodnight, Eames.”

“There’s a love,” Arthur hears, and then the bed tips as Eames sits beside him, and when Arthur feels fingers carding through his hair; gentle, rhythmic, he sighs contentedly and burrows deeper into the covers.

He falls asleep.

 

* * *

 

“Arthur. _Arthur._ ”

Arthur cracks open an eyelid, before snapping it back shut.

“Why are you shining a fucking lamp into my fucking eyes, Eames?” he grumbles.

“Arthur, that is the _sun_.”

“Ugh, I hate hangovers,” Arthur replies, and he tentatively opens an eye again. He winces but manages to keep it open; Eames is staring down at him amusedly.

“And that is why I have some water and painkillers for you. Now get up, you oaf. It’s one in the afternoon.”

With a great heroic effort, Arthur throws back the covers and sits up. He winces as his head begins to pound, and his vision spins as he looks up imploringly at Eames.

“Here,” Eames says, handing his a glass of water and two Tylenol.  Arthur takes them willingly, and Eames then turns around to rummage through his closet.

“Well I remember fuck-all from last night,” Arthur says, downing both the pills with a gulp of water.

“You said that would happen,” Eames calls out from the closet. “So I took the initiative and taped everything.”

“Wha- really?”

“No.”

“Oh ha ha,” Arthur snaps. “That was hilarious.”

Eames spares the moment it takes to twist around and give Arthur a cheeky grin, before turning back to rummage through his closet once more.

“So um,” Arthur says, after a moment. “Listen, I was thinking… can I- can I stay here again tonight?”

Eames clicks his tongue. “Don’t think that can happen, mate,” he explains. “My roommate’s coming back tonight is the thing. But I know a guy, name’s Robert Fisher. His roomie dropped out mid-semester so he’s got a spare bed. Even went ahead and called him up for you; he says you can sleep there for however long you like.” Eames shrugs. “I mean, if you’re up for it.”

“As long as he doesn’t murder me in my sleep, I really don’t give a fuck whose room I crash in,” Arthur mutters.

“Good,” Eames exclaims. “Now move your lazy arse; we’re getting coffee.”

 

 

“This is the best coffee I’ve ever tasted,” Arthur moans. “And I’ve been to Europe, so.”

“…Arthur, we’re at Starbucks.”

Arthur moans again. “I know, isn’t it _lovely_?”

Eames laughs around the lid of his coffee before taking a sip. “I’d always taken you for one of those coffee purists. You know, the people who never drink coffee from big-name brands like Starbucks.”

“Only coffee from small, local cafés? Yeah, no; I fucking love Starbucks,” he says with a grin. “Plus, aren’t you British people supposed to despise coffee or something?”

“I’m a rare breed,” Eames replies knowingly, nodding his head.

Arthur smiles, popping a bit of his banana-nut muffin into his mouth.

Eames looks down at his croissant, pursing his lips and then he suddenly blurts, “Arthur, what are you going to do about Ariadne and Dom?”

Arthur’s smile vanishes. His brows furrow, and suddenly he’s lost all appetite for his meal.

“You can’t just… you can’t just let this _go,_ ” Eames continues.

“Watch me,” Arthur snarls. “I want nothing to do with them.”

“How are you going to manage that?” Eames asks. “I mean, we have _class_ with them.”

“Well I’ll just fucking avoid them, won’t I?” Arthur answers, staring down at the half-eaten muffin on the plate in front of him. “It’s really all I can do.”

“I think you’ll find that’s going to be a little difficult.”

“I’ll manage,” Arthur replies. “I’ve got to, you know?”

“Yeah,” Eames agrees. “Yeah, I know.”

 

* * *

 

It’s easier than Arthur first suspected, avoiding people.

It’s just hanging out in places you know they won’t be, dashing to and from classes with no other destination in mind, ignoring calls when they come, deleting texts without reading them.

There’d been a few close calls in the beginning few weeks, when Ariadne or Dom would unwittingly run into him between classes. But Arthur would just move on, ignoring their pleas, ignoring their apologies. Arthur knows it’s juvenile, but it’s all he can do.

Arthur moves in with Robert during this fiasco; he turns out to be a nice guy, son of the Dean and with a surprising attachment to beaches.  He makes an official request with the school to move in with Robert a few days later, and soon it’s all finalized. He sneaks into Dom’s room when he knows the other is in class, to pack up all his stuff, and with the help of Eames he’s in and out before Dom even shows.

Life goes back to normal. It’s like nothing had ever happened. It’s like nothing had ever gone wrong.

 

* * *

 

The last week of November comes around, the end of the year fast approaching, and with finals just around the corner Arthur finds himself in the library studying with Yusuf with more and more frequency. Of course, this comes with an increasing number of stories and rumors from Yusuf, but as Arthur’s tolerance for Yusuf’s motor-mouth has improved in leaps and bounds, he’s able to just grin and bear it.

“So apparently my roommate’s crush totally kissed him a few days ago,” Yusuf says one Sunday.

They’re in the middle of their session, and with two hours of solid studying behind him, Arthur just groans inwardly, before setting aside his textbooks and humoring Yusuf’s soft spot for gossip.

“Is that so,” he deadpans, rolling a pen between his fingers.

“Yeah, crazy right?” Yusuf says eagerly. “They totally made out.”

“So I’m assuming they’re together now,” Arthur says. “Fucking finally, I should say.”

“No, dude,” Yusuf says, eyes widening, “the guy was _drunk._ And apparently _this_ guy’s crush had fucked his best friend, so my roommate wasn’t about to let himself be a pity fuck, you know?”

It’s like a lightning bolt.

“Wait. Wait. Yusuf,” Arthur interrupts, and he can barely hear his own voice over the incessant roaring in his ears. “Yusuf, your roommate. Yusuf, what is your roommate’s _name_?”

“Eames,” Yusuf replies.

Arthur drops his pen.

“Didn’t I tell you before?” Yusuf goes on, rubbing his chin in thought. “I was sure I told you before.”

Arthur can’t breathe.

“Arthur?” Yusuf says, and his voice sounds so very far away. “Arthur, you okay?”

Arthur blinks rapidly, wide eyes staring straight at Yusuf. “Yusuf, I have to go,” he says calmly, slowly. His mind whirling, he stands up to methodically place his books one by one into his backpack.

“Arthur, you’re fucking scaring me, man,” Yusuf chuckles nervously. “What are you… _wait._ ”

Arthur zips up his backpack, slings it onto one shoulder, and walks to the door. His ears are ringing and his heart is pounding, but his steps are steady.

“It’s _you_ , you bastard!” Yusuf cries out, pumping his fist into the air. “It’s fucking _you_!”

But no one’s left in the room to hear him; Arthur is already gone.

 

 

The second Arthur slams open the library door and strides out into the chilly night, he’s on his phone calling Eames.

“Eames, where are you?” he asks breathlessly, just as Eames picks up.

“I’m in my room… why, what is-”

“Okay, stay the _fuck_ where you are,” Arthur interrupts, and he snaps his phone shut.

He’s throwing open the door to Eames’ room in thirty seconds flat.

Eames must’ve been pacing, because when the door slams open he’s frozen mid-step in the center of the room, and he’s glaring holes into the carpet. His head snaps up, and he looks at Arthur bewilderedly. “Arthur, what? What’s hap-”

Arthur takes two steps forward and kisses him.

Eames yelps into Arthur’s mouth, and he stiffens instantly, beginning to pull away. But Arthur grabs two fistfuls of Eames’ shirt and yanks him back, and when Arthur licks at the other’s bottom lip, Eames latches onto him, opening his mouth willingly with an appreciative moan. It’s desperate, it’s warm, it’s wet; Arthur wonders what the _fuck_ he’d been waiting for.

They pull away briefly to catch their breath, but then Eames is back on him, joining their lips together, bringing a gentle palm up to card through Arthur’s hair, giving him purchase. He bites at Arthur’s lip, and he gasps, and Eames gasps, and then Arthur pulls away.

“You must think I’m a real douchebag,” he whispers into Eames’ mouth, their lips brushing with every syllable.

“Obviously not,” Eames says, eye’s shielding away, “seeing that I’m in love with you.”

Arthur squawks, and when a desperate keening escapes the back of Arthur’s throat he doesn’t have the wits about him to be embarrassed. He surges forward and they’re kissing, losing themselves in the sensation of their lips, their _tongues_ moving together, and Eames’ thumb stroking Arthur’s cheek as they kiss, and Arthur’s hand pushing under Eames’ shirt to run his fingers across the waistband of Eames’ pants.

But then Eames pushes him back. “Okay wait, _wait,_ ” he says, when Arthur attempts to kiss him again. “You’re… you’re sure you want this, Arthur? Because I don’t want this to be a onetime thing, this isn’t-”

“I’ve wanted this since Halloween, Eames,” Arthur interrupts. “Ariadne just got in the way.”

“R-right, okay,” Eames stutters. Arthur kisses him again, running his tongue sensuously across Eames’ bottom lip, but then he pulls away once more, eyeing Arthur skeptically. “Are you sure, though?”

“Eames?” Arthur says, and he reaches out to grab Eames’ crotch. Eames shudders out a shaky breath, and he willingly lets Arthur push him back, until his knees hit his bed and he falls with an ‘ _oomph_ ’ onto the mattress, Arthur crawling after him. “Shut up.”

So Eames shuts up.

 

* * *

 

“You two may be wondering why I called you in to my office, so close to the end of the semester,” Saito says.

Their professor is sitting at his desk, but he’s straddling his chair backwards. He stares intently at Arthur and Eames, who are properly sitting in the chairs in front of him.

“Just a bit, sir,” Arthur replies.

“Well,” Saito says primly, steepling his hands over his desk. “You turned in your comic book last week, and I was… impressed.”

Arthur and Eames share a glance.

“The idea was original, refreshing; the drawing masterful; the dialogue quick and exciting. I must admit, I at first believed you two had simply turned in a copy of a book you had picked up from a store."

“Sir, we would never-”

Saito raises his hand and Arthur stops short. “I quickly realized my mistake. It was obviously your own work. And the way you drew yourselves as the main characters, and incorporated others you knew—including me, of all people!—how inspiring! It was impressive; so impressive that I quickly came to the conclusion that it needed to be published."

“Really?” Eames exclaims. Arthur elbows him in the side and Eames snaps his mouth closed.

“So I went ahead and published it myself,” Professor Saito continues. “It seemed… neater.” He then opens up a drawer in his desk, then lifts up a comic book. The cover is glossy, obviously printed professionally. He hands it over, and Eames takes it reverently, flipping through the pages.

“I don’t how to thank you, sir,” Arthur says, stunned. “This is a great honor.”

“You boys can thank me by writing a sequel; I’m sure your publishers and fans will soon want another one,” Saito says, eyes twinkling. “You may go now.”

Arthur and Eames both stand up and move towards the door.

“Oh and boys?” Saito calls after them. “You two passed the class.”

They both grin.

 

 

“Well that went well,” Eames says brightly, as he pushes open the door to the Cobol Building. They step outside into pale sunshine.

Arthur slips his hand into Eames’, and smiles at him when Eames squeezes his hand. “Are you sure that happened?” he asks in disbelief, and then wryly adds, “are we in a dream? Check your totem.”

Eames laughs, glancing at Arthur. He then stops short, tightening his grasp on Arthur’s hand and pulling him closer.

“It looks like you’re stuck with me for a little while longer,” Eames quips, crowding Arthur’s space, and his eyes flick down to Arthur’s mouth. “I’m the artistic talent in this partnership; no way you’re going to write a sequel without me.”

“I could always find another illustrator,” Arthur replies.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Eames whispers with a soft laugh, before closing the gap between their lips.

“Arthur!”

The voice comes from behind him. Arthur reluctantly pulls away. Eames is already looking over his shoulder with a pinched expression. Arthur doesn’t need to turn around; he knows who it is.

It’s Dom.

Arthur sighs, and gently touches Eames on the arm. Eames snaps his attention back to Arthur, and Arthur is suddenly struck by the fierce _affection_ he feels for the man in front of him. He smiles softly, and resists the urge to pull him close for a kiss.

“Is Ariadne with him?” he asks quietly instead.

“Yes.“

“Then I don’t want to talk to them,” Arthur snarls, but there’s no true malice behind his words. He moves to shove past Eames, but Eames anticipates this, catching Arthur’s wrist gently to stop him from fleeing.

“I’ve been talking to Ariadne these last few weeks,” Eames says, voice pitched low, and he looks down, playing with Arthur’s fingers as he speaks. “She’s been crying on and off for the past month.”

“Oh, the poor thing.”

“Arthur,” Eames snaps, impatient. “Look, don’t take this out on her.” He drops Arthur’s hand, but still remains close.  “She’s a sodding mess, really. Even asked me if breaking up with Dom would make this any better.”

“What, why the fuck-,“ Arthur begins, eyes narrowing, and his voice trails off. He looks down and away, catching a glimpse of Ariadne and Dom still patiently waiting together a ways away. “That’s not even why I’m fucking angry, really,” he mutters.

“It’s about Dom,” Eames affirms, and Arthur’s heart plummets.

“Fuck,” he exclaims, and sucking in a deep breath through his nose whirls around.

“Get the _fuck_ over here, Dom,” Arthur bites out, hands curling into fists at his sides. Ariadne runs her tongue over her bottom lip nervously, and Cobb breaks away, walking up to Arthur with hesitant steps.

“I’ll be over there with Ari,” Eames whispers gently into Arthur’s ear, and as Dom moves closer he strides away. His absence carves out a liberal chunk of Arthur’s resolve, but he stands there, steadfast, watching Dom approach. He stops a few feet away. Arthur scowls at him. Dom smiles weakly.

“So you and Eames are together now,” Dom begins timidly.

“Yeah, no thanks to you,” Arthur snarls.

“Arthur,” Dom sighs feebly. “Please, can we just-“

“Dom, you started seeing the girl you _knew_ I was in love with.”

“Yeah, but-“

“Then _slept_ with her.”

“That was-“

“And to top it all off, you didn’t even have the _balls_ to tell me you were partnered with her in the first place!”

“Okay, cut the bullshit,” Dom unexpectedly snaps. Arthur’s mouth drops open.

“We all messed up,” Dom continues vehemently. “We all used each other; we all had an end game. It happened, it’s done; can we just fucking get _over_ it now _?_ I thought our friendship was more than this!”

“How can our friendship be more than this?” Arthur asks in disbelief. “You betrayed everything that friendship is supposed to _be_!”

“I didn’t want this to happen,” Dom says. “You think I fucking wanted this to happen!?”

“Maybe if you had just _told_ me you were partnered with her from the get-go, we could have avoided it!”

“You would’ve thrown a fit at the very mention of Ari and I being partnered, dumbass.” Dom scoffs, rolling his eyes. “I mean, why do you think I didn’t tell you the truth?” He looks at Arthur imploringly. “You would’ve done the same thing if our situations had been reversed.”

“Fuck you,” Arthur growls, then, “…okay, maybe I would’ve, but I wouldn’t have _fallen for her_.”

“That’s what I thought too!” Dom cries, throwing his hands up in defeat. “Look, I’m sorry, alright? I’m fucking sorry. The last thing in the world I wanted was for all this to happen. I just,” he looks down ashamedly, “I want my best friend back.”

“I mean, _fuck,_ you’re my best friend too _,_ but I can’t just… I can’t just _forgive_ you. Not that- that easily.”

“I know, man,” Dom whispers; his voice is raspy with emotion. “I know. I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry.”

Arthur’s heart clenches. “Dominick Theodore Cobb, if you fucking cry on me right now.”

“I’m not going to cry,” Dom scoffs. He sniffs, and his eyes clench tight.

“Eventually, we’re going to move past this,” Arthur says.

“Eventually,” Dom echoes. He stands there dejectedly, avoiding Arthur’s gaze, and when he starts nudging at the pavement with his shoe, Arthur just can’t take it anymore. “C’mere,” he snaps, and pulls Dom into a hug.

“Atta boy,” Dom mutters into Arthur’s shoulder, voice full of relief.

Arthur laughs.

 

* * *

 

“So,” Arthur begins, “what are you doing for winter break?"

He’s sitting cross-legged on Eames’ bed, watching his boyfriend meticulously pack away his stuff into his suitcase. The semester ended yesterday, and they have until tomorrow to leave campus; to drive or to fly back home for the holidays. Arthur’s already packed; he’s hitching a ride with a friend the next day.

“Well, home for me is England,” Eames replies, folding one of his shirts neatly before putting it in his suitcase. “And as my family can’t afford a plane ticket right now, Ariadne has kindly offered up her apartment for me to crash in.”

Arthur frowns. “Wait, wait. You’re staying here? By yourself? Why didn’t you tell me this before, Eames?”

“I didn’t want you to worry,” Eames replies, suddenly interested in examining the zippers on his suitcase. He blushes.

“Okay, it’s decided then,” Arthur exclaims. “You’re coming home with me. I told my mom about you a few weeks ago and she’s dying to meet you. I only didn’t ask you before because I thought you’d for _sure_ be spending your holiday with family.  Eames, you fucker,” he says, shaking his head fondly. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!”

“Well _sorry_ ,” Eames says exasperatedly. “I just don’t want to ruin your holiday with your family, Arthur.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Arthur scoffs, rolling his eyes. “I mean, having you there will make my holiday ten times _better_.”

Eames still looks unconvinced. “Are you sure you won’t mind?”

“Of course not, you idiot,” Arthur says confidently, “I _love_ you.”

Eames makes a desperate whine, and launches himself at Arthur.

It’s only the next day that Eames can finally finish his packing.


End file.
